The Road Not Taken
by cheride
Summary: What do you get when you mix a slightly eccentric, soon to be retired judge with a grieving, impulsive ex-convict he once sent to prison? Whatever it is, it's probably not going to come easy.


_This is a work of fanfiction, for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

**Author's Notes:** It's undoubtedly my penchant for "early" that led to my favorite A/U pondering, which was a simple question: What if McCormick hadn't hung around that first night at Gulls' Way?  This is one possibility.

Also, I should give a big shout of thanks to LML for this one.  It was probably some subconscious fear of rewriting canon that made me set this aside for a year or more after it was started, but she never once badgered or harangued or even told me to just forget it and give up.  Instead, she made mild inquiries from time to time, encouragement offered without pressure, which is exactly the sort of thing that helps me most, so I am grateful.

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**The Road Not Taken**

by Cheride

**Chapter 1**

Mark McCormick sat silently in the darkened gatehouse, spinning a basketball in his hands. He hadn't left the light on because he didn't want Hardcastle to know he was still awake. And he hadn't put away the ball because . . . well, he didn't really know why he was still holding the ball he had carried into the house after that unexpected game of hoops, but it seemed to be helping him think, so he was unwilling to put it aside. He was approaching a proverbial fork in the road of his life, and McCormick had faced enough of them to recognize the choice before him now, though he was finding the decision more difficult than he had anticipated.

Actually, what McCormick knew about forks in the road he had mostly learned from hindsight. Brash and impulsive, he typically blew right past the turning points in his life, never recognizing the choice for the road not taken until it was too late. He had done it again today. Well, _yesterday_, really—it had definitely been a weird couple of days. The point, though, was that he had missed another chance when he was in Hardcastle's chambers. Even as insane as the judge's offer of partnership was, it was an alternative to prison, but McCormick had turned it down, preferring to salvage his pride. And not just turned it down. Oh, no. Angry and sarcastic, he had thrown it back in Hardcastle's face. He had sworn he would beat the rap and get justice for his friend's murder, though he had known even before the words were out of his mouth just how unlikely that really was. And he had stood right there in that small office and missed another turning point.

Then, unbelievably, the road suddenly presented yet another path. He had been in that damned cell, certain it was just the first of many nights to come, when Hardcastle had shown up, renewing his crazy offer. He had almost turned it down again, but common sense finally won out. He really didn't want to be in jail, and he really _did_ want to get Martin Cody, and the judge had a solution to both. McCormick turned the corner.

But even as he said yes, even as they made the drive home in that clunker of a pick-up truck, and even as he had crawled into bed in this amazing gatehouse, McCormick knew it wouldn't work. Hardcastle had sent him to prison for two miserably long years, and that was not the sort of thing a guy could just forget. So his brain had started spinning, searching for ways to make a quick getaway and go after Cody on his own, because he certainly could not stay here.

But all of that was before the basketball.

When he had heard the thump on the backboard outside his bedroom window just as he was drifting off to sleep, McCormick had been too shocked to move his emotions any further than highly annoyed. And so he had gone outside to try and reason with Hardcastle; he had tried to explain that the noise was disturbing his sleep. McCormick thought he might remember the judge's next words for the rest of his life.

"_I'm gonna file that under who gives a damn." _

Alone on the living room sofa, McCormick chuckled lightly. For some insane reason, that had cracked him up. Not that he would let Hardcastle see that, the crazy old coot. But then, before he even had a chance to understand what was happening, the young man found himself in the middle of the roughest game of street basketball he could ever remember. Hell, he'd had games with axe murderers who didn't play as rough as Hardcastle. And the old guy took it as well as he dished it out, which was almost more amazing. The first time McCormick had slammed an elbow into that judicial gut, he'd had a sudden image of himself spread-eagle over a squad car with some rookie uniform reading him the riot act about assault and battery. But the judge had never tried to hide behind his robes, and never threatened anything more severe than a pounding under the nets. And when he had lost that ridiculous bet about pulse rates, Hardcastle had simply taken out his money and paid his debt. Then, finally, the judge had complimented him—sort of—on his game. Truly unbelievable.

So now, almost an hour later, when he should have been sleeping soundly, here he was, sitting in the dark, trying to figure out why all of a sudden this whole Lone Ranger and Tonto thing didn't seem quite so crazy after all.

McCormick shook his head slowly. _Fork in the road._That was an understatement. This wasn't a choice between the well-marked but boring interstate or the pothole-riddled but fascinating county road. This was not a case where both choices could get you to the same ultimate destination and the difference was how and when you arrived. No, this choice would determine the rest of his life, and—for once—McCormick understood that in time. He could stay here with Hardcastle or he could make a run for it and go after Cody on his own. One path could lead to the satisfaction of a life that might actually amount to something someday and the other could lead to the anguish of a life of fear and isolation.

Now if he could just figure out which was which.

00000

McCormick sat behind the wheel of the pickup, making his final decision.

When he had finally emerged from the gatehouse, the main house had been dark, as he'd expected, but he had watched quietly from the bushes for close to fifteen minutes, anyway. When he was confident that neither Hardcastle nor Sarah was stirring inside, he had crossed the driveway quickly and quietly, reached inside the truck to put it in neutral, then pushed the old clunker down the drive. He had no idea where the bedrooms were situated, but he figured it couldn't hurt to put a little distance between the house and the old rattletrap he was hoping to borrow. But by the time he had reached the gate, McCormick had broken a sweat and was silently cursing rich people who thought they had something to prove with long, stately entrances to their homes. He didn't waste a lot of time arguing with himself about whether or not he actually believed Hardcastle fell into that category.

A few tools from the box behind the seat of the truck and a quick examination by headlight had allowed him to disarm the inevitable alarm on the gate. Who knew whether the old guy used the system or not, but always better safe than sorry. Then the gate had opened without incident.

Now he sat, behind the wheel of a not-yet-stolen truck, ignition wires expertly in hand, staring at the open gate and the open road beyond, trying to choose a path. He hadn't truly crossed any lines yet; no irreversible damage had been done. He could turn around now, put everything back in place and return to the gatehouse, and Hardcastle would never be the wiser. And he had to admit that the idea held some attraction, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

But regardless of the tiny inkling of an idea that life here at Gulls' Way could be different than he first imagined, he was tortured by the much more imposing idea that the path to putting Martin Cody behind bars lay outside this gate. And with that thought in mind, he reached down and connected the wires to start the engine, then quickly pulled out onto the PCH.

He didn't allow himself to look back.

00000

Less than an hour later he was on the 105 headed toward Lynwood. He had stopped at an out of the way all night café that had an even more out of the way pay phone and made a few calls. One of the calls had been to Barbara Johnson, telling her that he needed her help, starting with some information. She had gladly answered his questions about Cody, though she had countered with inquiries of her own, trying to determine exactly what was going on. He promised her he'd explain everything when he got to her place, then hung up. He made one last call, scribbled some information on the back of a receipt from the glove compartment of the truck, then started for Barbara's house.

She was waiting for him when he pulled to a stop in front of the house, and he jumped out quickly to intercept her before she reached the truck. "Put these on," he instructed, handing her a pair of gloves.

She looked at him quizzically, but complied. "What's going on?"

"I need a favor; I'll explain as we drive." He opened the door and helped her climb into the cab. "Just don't take off the gloves."

"Is everything all right?" Barbara asked as Mark climbed into the driver's side.

McCormick smiled slightly at her sincere concern; she was a good friend. _Just like her dad._ He shook his head slightly to clear the thoughts. He didn't have time to grieve right now.

"Um, it will be," he finally answered. He was already pulling the truck back onto the road and heading out of the Johnson neighborhood. He also didn't have time to sit and visit.

"Listen, I ran into some trouble, Barbara."

"I thought so. You were supposed to call me way before now."

"Yeah. But I got picked up; spent the day in jail."

"What?" Concern immediately gave way to alarm. "Your parole . . ."

McCormick nodded. "I know. But it gets worse."

"What's worse than going back to prison?"

The simple question stopped him cold. Maybe he should've called Barbara before he left Gulls' Way. On the other hand . . . "Martin Cody getting away with murder." His quiet voice was filled with determination.

Barbara had tears in her eyes as she asked, "So what happened?"

McCormick actually managed a small chuckle. "Things got a little weird. My case went before Judge Hardcastle—"

"Hardcastle?" she interrupted. "The guy from before? Oh, God!"

"That's what I thought," Mark agreed. "Anyway, he made me this crazy offer. Said if I'd come work for him, he'd help me catch Cody." He glanced over at his passenger, and saw her staring back with wide eyes.

"You're kidding," she said flatly.

"I wish I were. But he offered to get me out of jail; what else could I do?"

When he didn't say anything else for several long seconds, Barbara prompted, "Mark? What happened?"

"I told him I'd do it," McCormick said softly. "And as soon as he turned his back, I ran." He gripped the wheel tightly and focused on the road, driving without further comment.

"It's not like you owe him anything, Mark," Barbara answered after a moment.

"Yeah. I know." He paused again, then continued glumly, "Honestly, I think I hate him, but . . ." His voice trailed off as he tried to understand the conflicting emotions warring inside him.

"But you promised?" Barbara suggested gently.

He nodded. "I did. And he took me to his house. I mean, not his office, or some halfway house or something—his home.

"And the craziest thing is, he didn't make any threats, or anything. He just said, 'Don't take off', and believed that I wouldn't." Mark shook his head slowly as he continued down the darkened road. "I don't know. Like I said, I really think I hate him. But it was his _home_."

00000

They pulled to a stop across the street from the parking structure, and McCormick shut off the engine. Barbara's expression was rueful. "I still can't believe you left the Coyote in a public garage."

He grinned. "I told you; a friend of mine runs this place; it's always been a good place to keep cars." Dangling silver glinted in the darkness. "And, better yet, he gave me a key to the gate, so I don't have to wait for business hours. It's sort of like hiding a tree in a forest."

She returned his grin. "I hope you don't mean it's always been a good place to keep _stolen_ cars."

"Barbara." Mark pretended to be hurt, then laughed. "No. Usually racers that I didn't have a spot for at my place; you know, when they weren't at the track. But it was pretty handy for this." He sobered suddenly. "You sure you're all right with everything?"

The young woman nodded. "I'm the one who dragged you into this, remember? It's the least I can do."

"You know where you're going?"

"Yeah; straight up 5 to the rest stop at Buttonwillow."

"Exactly. My friend, Eddie, will pick you up there and bring you home. And you remember what to do if you're stopped?"

"Mark, we've been over this."

McCormick looked at her closely. "That's not an answer, Barbara. You remember what to do if you're stopped?" When she didn't answer right away, he continued firmly.

"You tell them I asked you to drive the truck and pick me up, nothing else. You didn't know the truck was stolen, and you don't know what I'm doing. Okay?" When he still didn't receive an answer, Mark narrowed his eyes, and asked intently, "_Okay_?"

"Mark . . ."

He held up his hand to prevent her arguments. "It's not like they aren't gonna know who stole it, Barbara, and I can't be worried about you endin' up behind bars while I'm trying to work Cody. Just promise me; if they stop you, you have to protect yourself."

She finally nodded. "Okay."

Mark smiled slightly. "Don't worry; I'm sure it'll be fine. With any luck, you'll be back home before Hardcastle even knows his truck is gone." He leaned over and pulled her into a hug. "It really will be fine," he whispered sincerely.

Barbara held him tightly. "Am I going to see you again?"

McCormick pulled away from her quickly. "Of _course_ you are," he answered ardently. "I told you; things are going to be fine."

Barbara didn't answer, but simply held his gaze; she seemed to be waiting for a more honest response.

"I _am_ coming back," McCormick finally replied quietly, "really." He took a breath. "But I'll have to see you on visiting days."

The young lady's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Mark. I never should've gotten you involved in this. This isn't what Dad would've wanted."

"No," McCormick agreed sadly, "it probably isn't." He gently brushed a tear from her face. "But it is what he deserved. He was my best friend, Barbara. I have to do something." And then he crawled quickly from the cab and disappeared into the night.

**Chapter 2**

Milton Hardcastle moved cautiously toward the gatehouse. He didn't know the two guys he'd seen creeping across his driveway this morning, so there was definitely going to be trouble. The only question in his mind right now was which side of that trouble Mark McCormick would be on.

He was close enough now that he could see the door standing ajar, and he tightened his grip on the shotgun in his hands. _So they were looking for McCormick._But whether they were here to bust the kid out or bust him up, Hardcastle thought their plans were about to take a slight detour.

The judge pushed his way slowly through the doorway. He heard cursing coming from the sleeping loft, followed by something that sounded remarkably like his lamp being smashed to the floor. He planted himself in the middle of the living area and pointed the shotgun toward the staircase, waiting for the voices to descend. It didn't take long.

"Well, where the hell is he, then?" the lead guy was saying as he started down the steps.

"Damned if I know," his partner replied angrily. "He just—" he broke off as he ran into his buddy. Only then did he recognize the problem. "Shit."

"Got that right," the other said under his breath.

Hardcastle flashed a toothy grin. "Sorry you missed him, boys." And while he held the intruders at gunpoint, and wondered just what the hell was going on, he hoped he wasn't betraying any disappointment at finding the young man gone.

00000

"I really hate to say this, Milt," Frank Harper was saying, "but maybe this whole rehabilitation project of yours isn't such a good idea. So far they've been content just to run; you might not be so lucky next time."

"You call this lucky?" The coldness of his voice said Hardcastle didn't agree.

The lieutenant shrugged. "They could've decided to take you out in the process, ya know. These aren't just some mixed-up kids you're taking into your home, Milt; they're convicted _felons._ You need to be careful."

And though he nodded as he listened to his long-time friend, and years of experience told him that Harper was most certainly correct, and even though he had already filed the complaint that would have McCormick arrested on sight, Hardcastle couldn't seem to let go of the idea that he had not been entirely wrong this time.

00000

"I thought I told you to go home an hour ago," Harper commented as he strolled into the coffee room.

"Thought I'd wait to see if anything turned up right away," Hardcastle answered woodenly, not looking up from the cup he held between his hands. "And I made a few calls; talked to John Dalem over at the parole board and a couple of his supervisors. None of 'em seemed too surprised." He took a small sip of coffee. "Don't suppose you got anything out of those guys from my house?"

The detective sat down opposite the older man. "Not really. They're just hired thugs; got told to grab McCormick and leave him in a trunk down by the water somewhere." He shook his head. "They don't even know who they were working for, so that's a dead end. But," he rubbed his hands together in anticipation, "as it turns out, something else did turn up. The CHiPs found your truck."

Hardcastle arched an eyebrow, but that was the extent of the emotion on his face. "McCormick?"

Frank shook his head. "Sorry. It was at a rest stop up on I-5. Abandoned, but they say it's intact."

"You think I'm worried about the truck?" the judge growled.

Harper gave a small shrug. "Just thought you might want to think about cuttin' your losses on this one."

"It's the kid I want to find, Frank. He's got a lot of explaining to do before I send him back to Quentin."

"You think the explanation's gonna be much more than 'because I could'?" Harper asked. "I think you might be expecting too much."

Hardcastle met his friend's eyes. "I have to ask; whatever he's gonna say, I have to hear it."

Harper hesitated for several seconds, then slowly nodded his head. "Well, we're having the truck hauled back here for a complete processing, but the guys up there already gave it the once over. The only thing they found, apart from stuff that was clearly yours, was a scrap of paper with the address of a hotel and a time. Unless you had an appointment in Fresno, looks like he might be meeting someone later today."

"Fresno, huh?" Hardcastle asked slowly. "No, I don't have any appointments up there." He thought for a minute. "And I doubt seriously that McCormick has much business up there, either."

The lieutenant looked at him questioningly. "What're you thinking?"

With a shrug, the jurist answered, "I dunno. I guess there's obviously a lot about McCormick I don't know, or that I was wrong about, but I am pretty sure he's not stupid. I don't think he's gonna steal my truck, then leave it someplace where he knows we'll find it in a matter of hours, and accidentally leave a clue in there tellin' us exactly where we can find him and arrest him. It's too neat."

"Maybe he wasn't thinking about anything beyond getting away from you," Harper suggested. "My job would be a lot harder if it wasn't for careless criminals, ya know."

"Yeah, I know, but I don't think that's what we're dealing with here." He scratched at his head briefly. "You know, the only thing McCormick has really seemed to care about was this Martin Cody guy; he really wants to nail him."

"You don't think that was part of the act?"

"Uh-uh." Hardcastle shook his head decisively. "He mighta fooled me about a lot of things, but that wasn't an act. Flip Johnson was important to him; that makes getting Cody important, too. He might take off on me, but I don't think he's gonna give up on that."

"So you think he's going after Cody alone? Why? That doesn't even make sense."

"I never claimed he made sense," Hardcastle told him. He thought for another minute, then asked, "I don't suppose you have any information on Cody? Something that might let us know where the kid would go?"

"I don't know anything you don't know," Frank said apologetically. "I can send some guys over to his office to talk to him, see if McCormick's been around. I suppose we ought to warn him, anyway."

The older man waved a hand at that idea. "I don't know about a warning," he objected mildly. "McCormick wants the guy in prison; I don't think he wants to hurt him."

Harper's expression clearly said he didn't think Hardcastle was in the best position to be offering any kind of character reference for the missing man. "I'll send some guys," he said blandly.

Hardcastle just shrugged. He certainly wasn't in the mood to be defending the kid too much. He raised his cup absently to his lips, then grimaced at the coolness of the coffee. "Maybe I should be going," he said, lowering the cup to the table.

"Gonna head home?" Frank asked.

"In a while," the judge said, getting to his feet. "Johnson had a daughter; I think I'll go see if she knows anything."

The officer was following him toward the exit. "You think she could be involved in something?"

"Doubt it," Hardcastle answered shortly, "though losing a parent could be enough to make someone do things they wouldn't ordinarily."

"That's for sure," Harper said as they reached a juncture in the corridor. He paused before taking the path toward his office and away from his friend. "Just be careful, would ya? And make sure you let me know what you find out."

"Absolutely," the judge assured him, then continued on down the hall.

00000

"I know who you are," Barbara Johnson was saying coldly as she stood in her doorway, offering no welcome to the man on her step. "I was at Mark's trial."

"Ah." Hardcastle thought he shouldn't be surprised. The history in McCormick's file seemed to indicate he'd known Johnson a long time, and McCormick's own behavior indicated that the relationship had been close. He should've expected that the friendship might extend to the rest of the family. "I'm sorry about your dad," he continued after a moment, and he could tell that his sincerity was the last thing that Ms. Johnson had expected.

"Thank you," she answered uncertainly. It took a moment longer, but she finally said, "What can I do for you?"

"Have you heard from Mark?" the judge asked directly, and he saw from the way her eyes were suddenly anywhere but on his that there was something she didn't want to say. He simply watched her openly, and waited.

"He called me last night," she finally answered slowly, "it was late. I thought he said he was at your house, though I thought that was just about the craziest thing I'd ever heard." She looked at him quizzically. "Isn't he with you?"

She'd done pretty well, Hardcastle thought, after her initial shock. The answer had come out sounding routine and completely plausible. She didn't have any way of knowing that there was no working phone in the gatehouse at Gulls' Way, and therefore no way McCormick had called her from the estate last night.

Of course, he reasoned, _he_ had no way of knowing that she didn't honestly believe she was telling the truth. "What else did he say?" he went on. "And why did he call so late?"

Barbara seemed to consider that carefully, then said, "I think he might've been scared. Like maybe he thought he might've gotten himself into something he wasn't completely prepared for."

Much as Hardcastle would've liked to believed that, he thought he could still recognize the beginnings of a cover story when he heard one. He decided it was unlikely he would get anything out of this woman that would be anywhere close to detrimental to McCormick. Maybe if she felt like she was helping, it would be a different story. He drew in a breath.

"I think there's probably been a lot he hasn't been prepared for lately," he began, not unkindly. "He seemed awfully upset about your father."

"They were very close."

"So it seemed," the judge said, nodding slowly. "And he seemed to think it wasn't really an accident."

"Well, you know how it is when people lose someone," Barbara told him. "They're always looking for a reason. Accidents just seem so pointless." But her words had the sound of a carefully repeated lesson.

"What about you?" Hardcastle asked. "Were you looking for a reason, too?"

She hesitated, blinking her eyes rapidly. She finally offered a whispered response. "I think my father was murdered, Judge. But I wish I'd never said that to Mark."

"So he was trying to help you prove it?" He didn't get a confirmation, but he thought the lack of denial said just as much. "And you're the one who told him Martin Cody was to blame?" He at least got a brief head nod to that.

"From what I could find out about Cody," he told her, "it didn't seem completely outside the realm of possibility. I told McCormick we would try to get him together."

"So why aren't you?" the young woman asked.

Hardcastle thought she played her part pretty well; she wasn't giving much away. He smiled at her, a little grimly. "He seemed to have other ideas after all. I don't suppose he said anything to you about that when he called?"

Barbara shook her head, which didn't surprise the judge at all.

"What about Cody?" he asked. "If someone wanted to try and bring him down, would you have an idea how they might go about it, or where they might start? McCormick doesn't really strike me as the type to just stroll into his office, or up to his front door, when he knows half the LAPD will be looking for him. That might be a good way to get himself shot."

Her eyes widened in fear. "Mark isn't dangerous," she said quickly. "You don't really think the police would shoot him?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "He's an escaped felon; and if he shows up at Cody's place, we're gonna have to assume it's with some kind of malice in mind." Then he added, almost as an afterthought, "It would be safer for him if I could find him myself." He didn't particularly like being deceptive—especially when it had the feel of taking advantage of someone's best intentions—but he also didn't particularly like being deceived, and he was convinced Barbara Johnson knew more than she had so far said. He let the thought simply hang there for a moment, then he turned back toward his waiting truck. "Okay, well, if you think of anything, I'm in the book. Or you can call the police."

"Wait." She took a step out onto the porch. "You're going to put him back in prison, aren't you?" she asked when Hardcastle turned to face her again.

"Most likely," he replied evenly. "And I imagine that's exactly what he's expecting. But at least I won't shoot on sight." He thought that might be laying it on a little thick, but it would serve its purpose.

After a long moment, the young lady sighed. "You know Martin Cody's trying to market the car my dad designed; he wants to mass produce it. That's why he killed him, so he could get complete ownership of the design. Anyway, he was supposed to have a showing in Las Vegas this week, for investors. His office would be able to tell you if that's still taking place, though he doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd call off something like that at the last minute. Too embarrassing."

"You think McCormick went to Vegas?"

She shrugged. "I think that's where Cody is."

He nodded once, then started toward the parked truck again.

"If you find him," Barbara called after him, "tell him I'm sorry."

Hardcastle glanced back at her. "I'll tell him you're a good friend."

**Chapter 3**

McCormick sat at the small table in a motel room, quickly eating a lunch of cheeseburger and fries. He'd pulled into Vegas just after nine that morning—the early morning desert crossing had been an excellent opportunity to find out what the Coyote could really do—then stashed the car in another garage, carefully pulling a tarp covering on it before walking a ways down the strip then catching a cab to this motel. Then he'd forced himself to sleep for a couple of hours, showered, and crossed the street to a nearby burger joint for nourishment. But he'd felt strongly that the less time he spent in public the better, so he'd gotten his food packed to go and headed back to the room to have his meal. And as he ate, he was making plans.

The phone calls the previous night had confirmed that Martin Cody was continuing with his plans to find backers for his theft of Flip Johnson's design—not that he was presenting it that way, of course. He had found out what hotel the man was staying at, and it had taken considerable restraint to not simply march up to the guy's room, knock him senseless, and then haul his butt to the police. The thing that had stopped him was the tiny detail that he had no proof that Cody was guilty of anything whatsoever, and once the authorities were involved his chances to find that proof were over. He had to make sure that when he was ready to deliver Cody to the cops, the case was solid. He ignored the voice in his head that was repeating 'no loopholes'. He'd heard enough of Hardcastle's words while he'd been in prison—enough to last a lifetime. And he figured he had a few more years coming to get used to hearing it again, so he sure as hell didn't need the old coot interrupting now. He shook his head and continued with his planning.

The other thing he'd discovered through his phone inquiries was that Cody had a racer on staff here in Vegas with him. He'd been surprised, but Barbara seemed to know all about it. Rick Vetromile was someone he knew from his track days, and McCormick thought going through a mutual acquaintance might be the easiest way to get in touch with Cody. Besides, he'd seen Rick at Flip's funeral, and it seemed Cody was probably stringing the guy along with a lot of big plans and false promises. If he could make Vetromile understand that Cody was operating strictly on his own agenda, maybe he'd even find an ally. Again he banished any thought that he might've already left one ally behind; that whole idea was getting crazier with each moment of hindsight. Besides, he'd have plenty of time to second-guess his choices later.

00000

He spent what seemed like a long time waiting over at Caesar's Palace, and he'd lost track of the number of times he'd been thankful for the cap he kept pulled down to help disguise him at least a little bit; there were a lot of cop types in casinos, and it wouldn't surprise him if at least a few of them had been told to keep an eye out for him. It seemed the quick stop at his apartment before heading to Barbara's place last night had definitely been worth the risk; discretion was always the key to successful surveillance. Well, discretion and patience. Finally, after almost three hours, Rick Vetromile was strolling toward the main exit. Unfortunately, he wasn't alone, but it was only one other guy, and McCormick didn't really have more time to wait. He put a little space between them, then got up to casually follow Vetromile out the door.

He was glad to see the two other men didn't seem to be moving to get into a waiting cab, or even headed toward the valet stand. He'd much rather have this conversation away from the prying ears of doormen and passing tourists. He followed the others down the sidewalk lining the stately drive of the property, then closed the gap as they approached a small widening in the walk.

"Hey, Rabbit!" he called out, hurrying to catch up to the racer. "How ya doin'?" He clapped the man on the shoulder, smiling broadly, no indication that there might be any trouble at all.

"Can I talk to you privately a minute?" he asked quietly, trying to steer them both away from the unknown companion.

"Skid. What—what're you doing here?" Vetromile not only seemed surprised to see him, but also suddenly nervous, McCormick thought, as he watched the other's eyes dart toward the stranger, then back again. "You really shouldn't be here," Rick added, trying to turn away.

But the unfamiliar man seemed to have other ideas. "Skid?" he asked, looking at McCormick carefully. "As in Skid McCormick?" He glanced back at Vetromile. "Don't be rude, Rick. You should introduce me to your friend."

Vetromile hesitated, seeming unsure, but then he swallowed and did as he was told. McCormick didn't recognize the name Joey Morgan, but he could recognize muscle when he saw it.

"Mr. Morgan," Mark said politely, "_I_ sure don't want to be rude, either, but I do kinda need to talk to Rick alone, if that's okay. It's kind of a personal matter."

Morgan's attempt at courtesy was not quite as successful. "I don't think so," he said bluntly. "My guess is the only personal matter you'd have to discuss with him is about the Cody Coyote, and as one of Mr. Cody's personal aides, I assure you, you can tell me anything about that."

McCormick grimaced. "The _Cody_ Coyote," he repeated through gritted teeth. "Yeah, that's kind of what I want to talk about. Though the truth is, I don't really want to talk to Rick about it, and I sure as hell don't want to talk to you about it. What I'd really like to do is talk to your boss. I have a business proposition for him, and I'd rather not deal with the hired help."

It was Morgan's turn to make a face. "Rick, I think you should explain to your friend the way things are."

"Look, Skid," Vetromile stopped, started again. "Mark, Joey's real involved in stuff with Mr. Cody, and it'd probably be best if you just talk to him." He dropped his voice. "And besides, everybody around here thinks you stole the Coyote; you need to get that worked out."

McCormick smiled grimly. "They think I've got the car, huh?" He glanced over at Morgan, then turned his attention back to Vetromile. "Then they aren't as stupid as they look. I do have the car, Rabbit, but it's the _Johnson_ Coyote, and unless Cody wants to do some business, it's gonna stay that way." He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and slipped it into Vetromile's hand. "I'll be at this number the rest of the afternoon. Cody's got until six o'clock to call, or he's gonna be short one prototype vehicle. Got it?" Without a look back, he moved past the two men, hoping that Cody's muscleman wasn't in the habit of shooting people in the back.

To his surprise, it was Vetromile who called after him. "What if we just tell the cops you're here?"

"You could do that," McCormick answered with a quick glance back over his shoulder, "but I don't think your boss would like it. The only way he gets that car back is on _my_ terms. I'll be waiting for his call."

00000

McCormick kept telling himself not to worry. Guys like Cody had to appear in control of everything, so he was sure the man would wait until the last possible minute to make contact. But he knew Cody couldn't appear to be in control of anything without the car, so he would call; there was no other choice.

But repeating that logical argument to himself for several hours didn't really do much in terms of reassurance and he still felt himself jump when the phone finally rang at five fifty-nine. He took a breath to steady his nerves, then took another couple to let Cody do some waiting of his own. He picked up the receiver in the middle of the fifth ring, and answered coolly. "Yeah?"

"I believe you have a business proposition for me?"

"Cody? Is that you?" McCormick would've recognized the oily voice anywhere, but he was running his trusty tape recorder, and anything that might count as corroborating evidence needed to be spoken aloud. He could almost hear the scowl in the answering voice.

"That's who you asked to speak to, right?"

Mark gave a mental shrug; not exactly an admission, but if he recognized the voice, so would a jury. Besides, this was all preliminary. "Right. And you're also right that I have a business proposition for you. I have a piece of property that you might be interested in."

"You mean, you have a piece of property that you stole from me," Cody replied, and Mark thought maybe two were playing at the incriminating evidence game. "But yes, I would be interested in having it returned."

"It doesn't belong to you," McCormick corrected firmly, "and I've got the paperwork to prove it. But my interest in it died along with Flip Johnson, and I'm a reasonable man. I'd be happy to sell it to you . . . for a reasonable price."

"There isn't any paperwork," Cody said harshly, "except the contracts showing that Johnson worked for me when he designed the car. That clearly shows ownership of the design belonging to Cody Automotive."

"Well," Mark drawled, "I know you think you've got the only contracts; I know you tried to take care of that in the fire. But I guess we'll have to let the lawyers sort it out, because what I've got is a copy of your partnership agreement with Flip." He let a beat pass then added, "Oh, and did I tell you? Flip and I were really close, you know; he was sort of like a dad to me. That's why I'm in his will. See, I get all his business holdings, which—I'm pretty sure—would include his design of the Coyote, and any income from the sale of that design for production."

There was silence from the other end of the line for almost a full minute before Cody finally said, "A will? He left his inheritance to a race car driver?"

"We were close," McCormick reminded him. "But like I said, I was interested in driving the car when Flip was part of the deal. I don't think I'm really too interested in being your business partner, Mr. Cody. They seem to have short life expectancies."

"You can't really expect me to buy back my own car?" Cody blustered.

"Completely up to you. I'll sell you the car—and my copy of the partnership agreement—or I'll take it all to the cops and see if Flip's accident still looks quite so accidental when they get done putting all the pieces together. You decide." McCormick held his breath, but Cody didn't make him wait long.

"How much?"

"Two-hundred fifty thousand," McCormick replied without hesitation.

Cody barked out a short laugh. "You're crazy. You want me to give you a quarter of a million dollars for something that already belongs to me? Even if you do have those papers, that only gives you forty percent ownership. It's not worth that kind of money. It's a car."

"Is that what you're gonna tell those investors tomorrow?" Mark wondered. "That it's just a car? Besides, I might only have forty percent, but that's still forty percent of the profit that you don't get. Not to mention the name. And I bet that's the part that really bugs you, isn't it? These papers will prove to the world that this really is Flip's design, and the car will be known as the Johnson Coyote. You'd hate that, wouldn't you?" McCormick knew he was assuming a lot, but he also knew Flip Johnson, and he knew the man would never give up one of his designs. At least not while he was alive.

"Do we have a deal?" he prompted.

"All right," Cody snapped. "Two-fifty. But it's gotta be soon."

"Not a problem, Mr. Cody. I understand you're in a hurry, what with your little show and tell tomorrow and all. But I hope that you'll understand that I prefer to deal in cash. Can you have it together by the morning?'

"Eleven. Bring it to Caesar's. And the papers."

"I'll bring the papers," McCormick agreed. "And after I put a few miles between us with the money, I'll call you and tell you where I left the car."

"McCormick . . ."

The oily tone coming through the phone was taking on a sinister sound, but McCormick ignored it. "That's my deal, Cody, and it's the only deal you're gonna get. Take it or leave it.'

"I'll see you at eleven," Cody told him coldly, just before the line went dead.

McCormick made sure to hang up his own phone and stop the recorder before he let out a sigh of relief.

00000

Feeling the sudden jab in the small of his back, McCormick froze. _Damn_. He'd known taking a stroll around the motel to burn off some of his nervous energy had been a bad idea, but how careless could he be? He raised his hands slowly away from his body as his mind desperately tried to figure a way out.

"What do you have to say for yourself, McCormick?"

The fear vanished immediately to be replaced by anger. McCormick whirled around. "Hardcastle! What the hell are you doing here?"

The weapon stiffened in the judge's hand. "Don't think I won't shoot you," he growled.

The ex-con took a shaky step backward, then froze, taking care to keep his hands in plain sight. "No," he gulped. "I'd never think that." He regained his composure. "So what _are_ you doing here?"

Hardcastle smiled coldly. "What do you think, hotshot? Looking for you."

"I want to get Cody, Hardcastle."

"We were supposed to get him together."

With all his might, McCormick struggled to maintain his tough demeanor, but the ice blue eyes that stared back at him were unyielding.

"I know," he finally sighed. He turned to face the wall and spread his hands and feet. "Let's get this over with." He closed his eyes briefly as he felt the skillful hands begin their search. "Gonna read me my rights?" he quipped under his breath, though he found no real humor in this situation. The lingering suspicion that he had chosen the wrong path the night he left Gulls' Way was rapidly becoming a full-blown certainty, and he found that he didn't really like that at all.

00000

Hardcastle fought the impulses raging within him. Realistically, neither beating the kid to a pulp nor giving him a stern lecture on the importance of trust and integrity would likely do much good. Instead, he settled for following his training as he quickly searched the young man—gratefully surprised to find he carried no weapon—then pulled McCormick's hands behind his back and locked cuffs around them. But he was determined he wouldn't put up with the mouth on top of everything else.

He jerked the young man around roughly. "Don't make this worse by being a smart ass, McCormick."

Mark opened his mouth, then seemed to recognize that the judge probably hadn't been making an idle request, so he snapped it shut again.

The men stood silent in the dusky breezeway, staring at each other, for many long and agonizing seconds. Finally, Hardcastle spoke.

"Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn't ship your ass right back to San Quentin?"

"No," McCormick replied evenly, "but I can give you one good reason why you should wait."

Surprised, the judge simply looked the question at the other man.

"Martin Cody. Judge, we can get him."

"In case you haven't noticed, there's precious little 'we' going on right now."

McCormick frowned, but plowed ahead. "Look, you came all the way out here. You've got me now, so that's one less criminal on the streets, and everyone can rest easier. But Cody's a murderer. I know it and you know it. Do whatever you want with me, Hardcastle, but let's nail Cody." He paused a moment before adding a sincere, "Please."

Hardcastle examined him a moment longer, then jerked his head toward the stairway. "Your room's that way, right?"

McCormick nodded silently, clearly not intending to push his luck, and the jurist thought that was a wise decision. The younger man stayed silent as Hardcastle grabbed his arm to pull him away from the wall then shoved him roughly toward the staircase, and he didn't speak again until they reached the door to his room.

"If you'll take these cuffs off, I'll get the key."

With a sideways look, the judge moved to unlock the handcuffs. He removed the bracelet from McCormick's right wrist, leaving his left hand secured, and keeping a firm grip on the other end of the chain.

McCormick just shook his head and dragged out the key to open the door. He led the way inside, but stopped short when Hardcastle tugged on the cuff. He turned impatiently and watched the judge bolt the door, including the chain lock. With a silent sigh, the young man turned into the room again and placed his hands together behind his back.

Confident that the room was secure, Hardcastle turned back toward his prisoner. He grabbed McCormick's right hand more forcefully than necessary, but then he hesitated. Releasing the free hand, he growled, "Turn around."

Mark turned and faced the judge, who grabbed the wrist again and pulled it over to meet the handcuffs, then locked the steel back in place.

McCormick stared down at his shackled hands for a moment, uncertainty written on his face, then glanced up to meet Hardcastle's eyes. "Thanks."

"Sit down," Hardcastle ordered, as if McCormick hadn't spoken.

McCormick chose the chair farthest from the door and sat, looking forlorn. But he let out a chuckle as he watched Hardcastle drag his own chair directly in front of the door before seating himself.

"You're about as subtle as a land mine, Judge," he commented with a small grin. "But I got it. You don't trust me."

The judge glared across the room. "Any particular reason I should?"

"Not really," the ex-con answered softly. After a moment he added, "I suppose you want an explanation?"

"You mean other than the one that says you're just a two-bit hood who didn't have the guts to stay and face your problems like a man?" Hardcastle's low, clipped tone only accented his smoldering fury.

"Well, yeah," McCormick replied, obviously forcing down his own anger, "other than that." When Hardcastle only looked at him expectantly, he continued. "It was never gonna work, Judge.

"You and me, we're like oil and water; gasoline and an open flame. There was just no way we were gonna manage to pull off the hi-yo Silver routine."

"Decided that after all of about three hours, did ya?" Hardcastle said sarcastically. "Then, since you had it all figured out anyway, you just went ahead and made it true, right?"

McCormick shrugged. "I didn't expect you to understand."

But Hardcastle wanted to understand. He took a breath and spoke more calmly. "So you were afraid I'd send you back? Is that it?"

Seeming surprised by the honest question, the young man smiled slightly. "You ever thought about the turning points in your life, Judge? You know, like you're standing at a fork in the road, and the path you choose will decide your future? Only sometimes, you don't even recognize the choice, or how important it is.

"Well, I figure pulling that cop out of the car was one of those times for me. I think it was decided right then that I'd end up back behind bars. So, to answer your question, no, it wasn't exactly that I was afraid you'd send me back." He paused. "I was afraid you'd send me back before we got Cody. And, honestly, the thought of being in jail while he was off scot-free . . . it made me a little crazy. I won't pretend I'm proud of what I did, Judge, and I won't make excuses. But that's what I was thinking."

Unprepared for such simple sincerity, Hardcastle just sat for a moment. Finally he said, "So what have you found out about Cody? Got a plan?"

"I've got a meeting with Cody tomorrow morning," McCormick replied with a visible sigh, and Hardcastle thought the kid seemed grateful to be moving to a safer topic.

"How'd you manage that?"

"I told him I'd sell the Coyote back to him or report him to the cops. His choice."

"So you're extorting him?"

"Only for the short term, so don't go gettin' your shorts in a wad."

"And is the car your only bait?"

"That, and a copy of Flip's partnership agreement with Cody and a copy of Flip's will naming me as the beneficiary of any and all business holdings."

Hardcastle's jaw dropped open. "You have that?"

McCormick flushed slightly. "Well, no. But it got his attention."

"So you're extorting him with a lie?" the judge clarified. He watched McCormick's face cloud over—as if he were searching for a response he thought would satisfy the judge—and Hardcastle grinned. He let other man off the hook. "I like your style, kid."

With a start, the young man returned the grin. "Glad you approve," he answered easily, and for reasons that made no sense at all, the jurist had the feeling that the simple response had been unexpectedly true.

Hardcastle pulled his thoughts back to business. "So what happens after you meet with him?"

"Thought maybe I could get him to confess," McCormick replied casually.

"Oh, really? Plannin' on swaying him with your rakish charm, or what?"

The ex-con chuckled. "Actually, I just thought I might let my natural talent for annoying the hell out of people finally get some use."

Hardcastle smiled. "I could see that. But then what?"

"Maybe get it on tape," McCormick said with a shrug.

"Well, see, now you're losing me," Hardcastle said with mock disappointment. "That sort of thing only works in the movies."

"Why?" McCormick demanded hotly. "It could work."

"First of all, kid," the judge explained, "Cody didn't get where he is by being stupid, so he probably wouldn't even fall for it. Secondly, there's lots of problems with trying to use that kind of evidence in court. I told you we needed to get him legal; no loopholes."

"Got a better idea?" McCormick snapped.

"We need a witness, McCormick . Someone willing to testify."

"Right; no problem, Hardcase."

"Don't get an attitude with me, kid. You're walking a pretty thin line as it is."

The young man swallowed hard but stayed silent, and Hardcastle was glad he had sense enough not to argue with the truth.

"I don't know his organization, Judge," he finally answered. "I don't know who knows what, and I sure as hell don't know who could be turned against him."

Hardcastle was thoughtful for a moment, amazed that the young man had not yet allowed himself to be baited into an argument. That was somehow impressive, though he would've preferred it be less so. Finally he spoke. "So do you have a contact there, or did you contact Cody directly?"

"There's a racer, Rick Vetromile. I delivered a message to Cody through him."

"And could he be the witness?"

"I don't know, Hardcastle," McCormick replied sincerely. "I just know he works for the guy. I don't think he knows anything about Flip's murder, if that's what you're thinking. I'm sure he'd never have any part in that."

"Maybe we could talk to him tomorrow morning before we meet with Cody," Hardcastle suggested.

McCormick stiffened in his chair. "We can talk to Rick, Judge, if you think it could help; Barbara says he's got a place here in town, so we could probably find him alone. But what do you mean before 'we' meet with Cody? He's not expecting me to bring a chaperone."

"You didn't expect me to let you walk out of here alone?" Hardcastle was incredulous.

There was a long moment of silence that said McCormick had expected exactly that. Hardcastle was hoping that would be the only kind of argument that would be put forth, though he'd already decided the young man wasn't the type to keep much to himself. It didn't take long for McCormick to live up to his impressions.

"Judge, you can't go. If you show up, Cody will never talk. I mean, I know you said it was a bad idea, but it's the only one we have right now. We can't risk it."

"I guess you should've thought about all that before you ran out on me, McCormick. You are not going alone."

McCormick grimaced at the coldness of the tone, but he charged ahead. "I'll do anything you want," he offered. "There must be a way we can work this out?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "You don't have anything I want, hotshot. The only place you'll be going alone is right back to the slammer."

"But, Judge—"

"But nothing, McCormick. I'm going with you." He delivered the words firmly, leaving—he hoped—no room for more argument.

Then he watched as the young man threw his hands up in the air in exasperation, apparently momentarily forgetting that they were chained together, which only served to increase his visible frustration. The judge didn't shift at all as the ex-con stared across the room for a long moment, but he was surprised when he saw the younger man suddenly draw in a deep breath then let it out again slowly, obviously forcing the anger to leave his body. He never expected the quiet words that ultimately came.

"Judge, please."

Hardcastle returned the stare, surprised to find his anger diminishing as McCormick tried so hard to control his own. He had never expected the ex-con to somehow understand that he had created this situation. He thought for a long moment.

"Give me the car," the judge finally said.

"What?"

"The car," Hardcastle repeated. "You can't make anything work with Cody without the car. If I keep the car, you can go to your meeting."

"But—"

"But what, McCormick? You aren't really in the best bargaining position, ya know."

"Yeah, I do know. But I told you before; I'm not making restitution. I'm keeping the car."

"I'm not talking about making restitution, McCormick. I'm talking about some kind of guarantee that you won't take off on me again."

"I can't give you stolen property, Judge; you're a judge."

"Those are your options, kiddo."

McCormick hesitated, but Hardcastle wasn't worried; the kid had nothing else to bargain with.

"That car belongs to Flip's daughter now," Mark said softly.

"If that's true, I'll make sure she gets it back," Hardcastle promised.

At last, as though he had recognized the truth of the response, McCormick nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll take you to the Coyote tomorrow."

Clapping his hands together, Hardcastle said heartily, "See, now we're startin' to have a plan."

"It's a plan all right," McCormick answered with a slight grin of his own. Then, as if the events of the last few days were suddenly upon him, he closed his eyes and slouched down in his chair.

"You're looking a little worn down there, McCormick," the jurist commented after a moment.

"Haven't really slept much since . . . well, it's been a while." McCormick spoke without moving from his reclined position.

"Serves you right," Hardcastle grumped.

"You're probably right about that," the young man replied quietly, still not opening his eyes. "But still, if we're through with all the planning, I wish you'd just stick me in whatever cell you have picked out for the evening, and I'll get a few hours sleep."

"I could do that, I suppose . . ."

McCormick finally looked back at the judge. "What do you mean?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "First of all, I'm kinda hungry; thought we might order a pizza. Do you like pizza?"

"Do I like pizza?" The young man laughed briefly. "Yeah, Judge, I do. But what's the second thing?"

"Locking you up—even overnight—takes a lot of paperwork." Hardcastle gestured around the room. "You've got two beds; I thought we'd just crash here tonight." He watched the unexpected smile of gratitude light the younger face, and he found himself smiling in return.

"Okay," McCormick said as he pushed himself out of the chair and walked to the phone on the nightstand between the beds. "I'll call in the pizza, Hardcase," he smirked as he pulled a phone book from the drawer. "That way you don't have to give up your guard duty."

The judge chuckled slightly as he watched the lanky form fold onto the bed, legs crossed, plopping the book into his lap, and maneuvering the pages with his shackled hands. Again he was surprised by the young man's attitude, as Mark simply went about his task without complaint.

The curly head looked up. "You like yours with everything?"

"Sure, kid. Whatever you want."

McCormick grinned and grabbed the phone.

00000

When the knock came, McCormick crawled off the bed and headed for the bathroom. It was an unspoken understanding that it would be better that the delivery driver not see a handcuffed man lying on the bed. When he heard the door close again, he grabbed a couple of hand towels and headed back into the room.

"Here you go," he said, tossing a towel at the judge, "fine dining linen."

Hardcastle grabbed the towel from the air and placed the cardboard box on the small table. "We should've had them send drinks," he commented idly.

"There's a machine just downstairs, Judge."

"And I suppose you'd just love to volunteer to go down there?" Hardcastle snapped.

McCormick sighed. "I could wait here. Or we could go together. Or we can drink warm tap water. It's completely up to you, Hardcastle. I'm not going to argue."

"Glad to hear it."

McCormick sighed again, and gazed intently into Hardcastle's eyes. "I'm really sorry, Judge," he said softly. "I should've said that already. I absolutely wasn't trying to cause you any trouble; I just couldn't risk going back inside without getting Cody. I know it was a mistake. Hell, I think I knew it when I left. But . . ."

He shook his head. "I told you before, I won't make excuses. But I am sorry. And, for what it's worth, I intended to go back after I got the evidence against Cody."

"You expect me to believe that?" the judge demanded, unwilling to admit—even to himself—that he actually did.

"Nope."

It took Hardcastle a moment to realize there was no more answer forthcoming. "That's it? Just 'nope'?"

McCormick shrugged. "Sounded like a yes or no question, Hardcase."

"And you're not making excuses."

"Glad you're payin' attention."

The judge shook his head slightly. He didn't want to be taken in by McCormick's easy charm, though he could admit that the ex-con was not displaying any of the behaviors he had expected to find. "Got a jacket?" he asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Do you have a jacket?" Hardcastle said clearly.

"Yeah," McCormick answered, heading toward the closet area. "It's not really my best frock, Judge," he continued as he returned to where Hardcastle stood. "Didn't know we were going out on the town."

Ignoring the smirk on the young face, Hardcastle grabbed the jacket and immediately draped it over McCormick's manacled wrists. "Slightly more presentable," he commented as he jerked his head toward the door. "Let's go get some drinks so we can eat."

McCormick was grinning as he allowed Hardcastle to shove him out the door.

00000

They completed the trip to the vending machine without incident—two trips, really, as they realized belatedly they should get ice. Finally, they were settled back in the room.

Hardcastle had placed half the pizza slices into the newly removed box lid and handed it to McCormick. Rather than sit at the small table, they had each claimed a bed and set up their meal there.

The judge leaned his back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, pizza box beside him, and his drink placed on the bedside table. As he ate, he was punching buttons on a remote control, flipping through television stations.

McCormick had again opted for a cross-legged approach, and had his pizza just in front of his folded legs; his soda carefully perched in one corner of the box. With his limited mobility, he wanted to keep everything close.

Hearing the judge crow with delight over finding something of interest on the TV, the young man glanced at the screen. "_That's_ what we're watching?" he blurted as he took in the scene: the doors to a saloon swung open as a man strode purposefully across the dirt street to a general store. "Where's the color?"

Hardcastle grinned over at him. "We don't need color, kid. This is a classic."

"Couldn't you find any classics from this century?"

Without comment, the judge returned his attention to his meal. And, immediately recognizing a lost cause, McCormick did the same.

It didn't take Mark long to develop an easy routine of double handed eating and drinking. It really wasn't that bad, and it was a hell of a lot better than being in a cell. After a while, he looked up from his pizza to find Hardcastle staring at him, a strange expression on his face.

"What?" the ex-con demanded, voice thick with toppings.

The jurist shook his head slowly. "You're just pitiful. You trying to make me feel sorry for you?"

Eyebrows shot up into curly hair as McCormick gaped at the other man. "You must be joking, Hardcase. I'll admit that I'm not above flashing puppy dog eyes at anyone I think might cut me a break, but you sure as hell wouldn't be on _that_ list. Besides, I gave you some of my best stuff a couple of years back and I still landed my ass in jail. And I was innocent then."

Chuckling, Hardcastle rolled off his bed. "Give me your hands," he said gruffly as he fished keys out of his pocket.

Disbelieving, McCormick held his hands out toward the judge.

As he slowly unlocked the handcuffs, Hardcastle locked his blue eyes onto the younger pair in front of him. "Don't do anything to make me regret this."

"No, I won't," McCormick promised, and there was a sincerity in his eyes that couldn't be doubted.

"And, just for the record," the judge continued, still not removing his gaze, "that crap about you givin' me some of your best stuff at your trial? If you had behaved even half as well then as you have today, your ass might not have landed in jail." With those words, he removed the final bracelet, let McCormick's hands drop to the bed, and reseated himself in front of his pizza.

McCormick rubbed at his wrists, but his attention was fixed on the older man. After a long moment, he said the only thing he could think of. "Thanks, Judge."

The jurist waved his hand in the air, brushing away the words. "It's easier than watching you pull your martyr act. Besides, I've got Millie right here," he patted the weapon lying at his side, "and you'd never make it out the door."

Mark grinned slightly. "I'm not gonna make you shoot me, Judge."

"Good. Then let's watch the movie."

And as he turned his attention back to the screen, McCormick couldn't help but think about missed opportunities and wrong choices at the forks in the road of life.

00000

Steam billowed around him as McCormick stepped out of the small bathroom, toweling his hair. He had slipped on a pair of blue jogging pants, and the lightweight tee shirt covering his torso clung lightly to his still damp skin. He threw the towel on the floor under the sink, then grinned slightly as he glanced into the bedroom area.

Hardcastle was stretched out on the bed, head propped up on the palm of one hand, trying to watch the local news broadcast through heavily drooping eyelids.

"Hardcase. Go to sleep before you pass out," he admonished.

The judge glared over at him. "I haven't even seen the weather yet."

McCormick thought the tone was probably supposed to be indignant, but when combined with such complete exhaustion, it came out sounding pretty childish. He laughed lightly, then deadpanned, "Judge, it's a desert. It's gonna be hot and dry."

"Anyone ever told you you're a smart ass?" Hardcastle muttered as he shoved his way to the vanity area.

"Once or twice," the young man admitted.

"Go sit down," Hardcastle instructed, pointing McCormick toward the bed. The young man complied quietly, noticing that the judge had pulled his holster over his shoulder, keeping "Millie" close at hand. The old guy certainly wasn't taking any chances.

_Well, not too many chances_, McCormick corrected himself, as he crawled onto his bed and leaned his back against the headboard. He understood that he could certainly be locked in a cell somewhere if Hardcastle wanted to be one hundred percent safe. Honestly, the small amount of freedom that had been granted was really pretty amazing, and McCormick couldn't help but wonder what he had given up when he had slipped away from Gulls' Way. Suddenly depressed, he pulled his legs to his chest, rested his chin on his knees, and closed his eyes.

00000

Several minutes later, Hardcastle turned from the sink. He stood quietly for a moment, examining the still form sitting silently on the bed. He was surprised to see the sadness painted on the youthful features; he was more surprised to find himself concerned. He reminded himself that he had never intended for the two of them to be buddies . . . and that was before the ungrateful punk took off. But still . . .

"McCormick? You okay?"

"I'm fine, Hardcastle." The ex-con didn't move, and his tone was far from convincing.

"McCormick." As the judge moved to reclaim his own bed, he put on his most threatening judicial voice.

A small smile formed on McCormick's face as he opened his eyes. "Why, Judge, I didn't know you cared."

"Didn't I just tell you not to be a smart ass?"

The young man took a moment, made quite a show of considering the question, then replied slowly, "Well, no. I think you might've said I _was_ a smart ass, but . . ."

The judge glared. "Dammit, McCormick, we've got a big day tomorrow, and I need to know you're up to it. Are you okay?"

Finally, the curly head raised itself completely. "I'm fine."

The repeated assurance carried a bit more confidence, but Hardcastle still wasn't convinced. "So what's on your mind?"

McCormick shook his head. "Nothin' important, Judge. I just need to get some sleep. And, yes, I'll be fine tomorrow." He spoke as if he expected his response to finish the conversation, but Hardcastle simply continued to stare, waiting for an answer he believed. After a moment, the younger man sighed, and offered the truth.

"I was just wondering how different things might've been."

"If you'd stuck around, you mean?" Hardcastle clarified, understanding immediately.

"Yeah."

The judge shrugged. "Hard to know. But I do know you can't spend forever dwelling on what might've been. Once you make a decision, you gotta live with its consequences."

McCormick gave a faint snort. "Trust me, I know all about that. Anyway," he continued, "I'm not dwelling, I was just thinkin' for a minute. The last week has been a little strange for me, is all. Lots of those turning points I was talking about before, and I sorta feel like I might've taken the wrong road a time or two." He forced a smile. "But don't worry; I'll be ready for whatever comes tomorrow."

Hardcastle nodded slowly. "Okay." He felt that he wanted to say more, but what, he couldn't be sure, so he let it go.

He watched as McCormick stretched out on the bed, and was gripped with a sudden wave of uncertainty. All things considered, this remorseful bit could well be an act.

"There is one thing that's probably different," he said after a moment.

Mark looked back across at him. "Just one?"

"You probably wouldn't have to spend the night chained to the bed," the judge replied firmly, dangling the cuffs in the air.

"But—" McCormick bit back the objection.

"Overnight hasn't exactly been your shining moment," Hardcastle grumped.

"No," McCormick agreed glumly, as he reached across to take the cuffs, "it hasn't." He looked around behind the pillows and mattress and found a narrow piece of the bed frame. Without further comment he secured one end of the handcuffs to the bed, then locked the other around his wrist. He tugged on the chain in demonstration, "Okay?" then stretched back out and turned to face the wall.

As the judge switched off the bedside lamp, a small sigh escaped his lips. He was not accustomed to doubting his instincts, but he was already regretting his latest strong-arm approach with McCormick. On the other hand, he'd spent most of the day regretting his decision to have McCormick paroled into his custody to begin with. So what were you supposed to do when you didn't even know what your instincts were?

Hardcastle lay silently in the dark, thoughts racing, and came to the conclusion that the real problem in this situation was that his true instincts were completely contrary to common sense. Never mind that the kid had broken his word and run, his instincts still said Mark McCormick could've been one hell of a Tonto.

Too bad it wasn't going to work out that way.

**Chapterf 4**

The feeling was unexpected, but McCormick didn't take time to try and understand it. He reacted immediately, rolling off the bed and to his feet, all before he had time to give any conscious thought to what was happening. The handcuff jerking against his wrist snapped him back to reality, just as the man standing at the edge of his bed placed large, beefy hands on his chest and shoved him back down. Then he saw another man place a gun barrel against Hardcastle's temple, effectively freezing the jurist's reach for his own weapon.

"What the hell is going on? These friends of yours, McCormick?"

"Hardly. Hey!" McCormick tried to stand again as the second thug backhanded Hardcastle across the face just for trying to sit up. But the guy in front of him had other ideas, and managed to keep him seated with a well-placed slap of his own.

"This turned out pretty easy, Joey," the man gloated, keeping a firm hand on McCormick's shoulder. "We won't even need our own handcuffs; he's already chained up."

Joey Morgan turned briefly from Hardcastle's bed and saw that McCormick was, indeed, chained to the bed. "Guess he's running a little short on friends all around," he commented sardonically, then turned back to face the judge. "Who're you?" he asked, finally pulling Hardcastle into a sitting position.

"His parole officer," Hardcastle answered shortly, "if it's any of your business."

"They've got guns, Hardcastle," McCormick complained. "It can be their business if they want." He peered around his goon to look at Joey. "But he's not involved in this. This is between me and Cody. Leave him out of it."

Morgan was casually patting down the judge, and he fished the keys to the cuff from a shirt pocket. "Here, Ronnie," he said, tossing them to the man behind him, "get him ready to travel." He glanced over at the door, to the third man, who'd been quiet up to now. "Why don't you help Ronnie with your friend, Rick?" He flipped on the bedside lamp as Vetromile crossed the room wordlessly.

"You're making a mistake, Rabbit," McCormick accused, ignoring the gun Ronnie held steadily pointed at his head, and glaring at the racer while Rick rearranged the handcuffs.

"It's gonna be my ride," Vetromile said shortly, though he didn't seem entirely pleased with his own actions.

"We'll see," McCormick returned, and allowed Ronnie to pull him roughly to his feet and swing him toward the door.

Morgan, meanwhile, had removed Hardcastle's wallet from a pocket, and was staring inside at the contents. "I thought you were the parole officer?" he asked coldly.

"I am," Hardcastle replied, his eyes taking in everyone's position.

This time, the backhand split his lip, and blood trickled down his chin. "You're a _judge_," he corrected.

"That, too," Hardcastle told the other man.

McCormick tensed. He'd also taken note of everyone's position, and he was calculating odds; he thought Hardcastle had been doing the same. He was watching the judge closely, and saw him give a single shake of his head. It was frustrating, but the guy was likely correct; this didn't seem to be the time.

"McCormick's in my custody," Hardcastle went on, "but he skipped out on me. I came after him. I don't really care what this is all about, but I can't let you take him. He's going back to prison."

"Maybe when we're done with him," Morgan answered. He glanced over at his partner. "Ronnie, let Rick deal with McCormick; you bring your cuffs over here and take care of the judge."

It only took a few seconds, and Hardcastle's hands were bound behind his back, then he was hauled to his feet, with Ronnie holding a gun pointed at his midsection.

"He's all yours," Morgan said to Ronnie, crossing back toward Vetromile. "Rick and I will deliver this one." He grasped McCormick's arm roughly and jerked him toward the door. "You meet us when you've dealt with the old guy."

McCormick planted his feet. "What? What're you gonna do?"

Morgan's fingers dug in. "Don't worry about it," he hissed, and dragged on the other man. "You got an appointment to keep." He jerked his head in Vetromile's direction, and the racer grabbed McCormick's other arm, helping to propel the prisoner to the door.

But McCormick was suddenly immovable.

"Skid," Vetromile whispered, "don't make this harder on yourself. You can't change this."

McCormick remained rigid; his face had become hard and cold. He ignored Vetromile and locked his eyes on Morgan. "You have two choices. Leave Hardcastle here—alone, _alive_—or bring him with us. Nothing else works for me."

Morgan's lip twitched into a grim smile. "Works for you?" he asked incredulously. "You don't get a choice."

"That's where you're wrong," McCormick said firmly. "I get _all_ the choices. And you know why? Because I have what your boss wants. So I _do_ get a choice, or he doesn't get the car."

For an answer, Morgan stepped in front of his prisoner and slammed a fist into his gut, doubling McCormick over.

Mark grunted, but then straightened immediately and looked at Morgan again. "That's my deal. Hardcastle stays alive, or Cody doesn't get the car."

There was another swift gut punch, followed by a blow to the back of the bowed neck that sent McCormick to his knees.

Hardcastle watched tensely, but his guard was well-trained, and hadn't made a move toward the altercation. The only change in Ronnie's position had been to place a firm hand on the judge's shoulder, forcing him back into a seated position, and then to lay a cold gun barrel against his temple.

"Bring him," Morgan ordered Vetromile, and they began to drag McCormick to his feet.

McCormick struggled furiously, managing to break free of the hands holding him. "You're never gonna get me out of here quietly," he said harshly, taking a step backward, away from the others. "Do this my way, and I'll go anywhere you want. I won't give you any trouble."

Morgan stood silently, examining McCormick for several long seconds. Finally he asked, "Why's it matter? The guy had you chained up like a dog."

McCormick nodded once. "Yeah, but maybe I don't want a dead judge showing up in my hotel room. Or anywhere else, considering he came to town looking for me." He shrugged. "Or maybe I'm just not the violent type." Then his eyes and his voice became hardened steel.

"Or maybe I've got plans for him myself. Like you said, he had me chained up. I didn't really like that." He stared at Morgan, letting the man consider, then continued, "But it really shouldn't matter to you why. The only thing that should matter to you is if you kill him, I'll never give up the car. You can explain that to Cody."

Their eyes were locked long enough that McCormick was becoming convinced he needed to start planning his next argument, when Morgan finally muttered, "All right, he comes with us. But neither one of you better give us any trouble gettin' out of here."

00000

"Well," McCormick sighed as the trunk lid slammed, "this isn't exactly what I had in mind."

"I'll bet," Hardcastle huffed. "And we just let 'em dump us in here without so much as a go to hell." After a moment he added, "What the hell was that all about, anyway?"

"What was what?" McCormick asked absently, more focused on squirming enough to be able to feel whatever was behind him.

"Back in the room, that's what." It was hard to miss the angry superiority in the tone.

McCormick stopped wriggling and glared in the general direction of Hardcastle's head. "I think it was about saving your life," he snapped, "so maybe you wanna climb down off that high horse and lose the attitude."

"It was stupid," Hardcastle said firmly.

"I won't argue with you there," McCormick answered, and went back to his wriggling.

"Yeah, well just don't get to thinkin' I'm gonna go easy on you because of it."

Mark was still again. "_What_? You think that's why—?" He huffed out an exasperated breath. "You're a lousy judge of character . . ._Judge_.

"Or maybe it's just me you're clueless about? You figure just cuz I'm an ex-con, I don't give a damn about anyone else, is that it?"

"I wouldn't get too attached to the 'ex' part," Hardcastle grumped, ignoring the kid's anger.

McCormick rolled his eyes in the dark. "Whatever. But, inside or out, I'm not gonna just stand by and let someone get murdered. Not even you."

Hardcastle was silent for a couple of minutes, until McCormick's renewed squirming sent a knee into his gut.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"There's something back here," McCormick explained. "Toolbox, I think. Might be something I could use to open these cuffs. I've gotten it close enough, now I just need to get the lid—ah ha!" He released the clasps and swung the lid open, rummaging blindly through the contents.

"You really think you can get out?" Hardcastle asked dubiously.

"Depends," McCormick answered shortly, and kept groping at the items in the dark.

A couple of minutes later, he delivered his decision. "Dammit. There's not much here. Closest we're gonna get is some safety wire, or something, but it'll have to do. Hang on."

Hardcastle didn't seem convinced. "You can't pick a handcuff with safety wire, McCormick."

"Maybe not," the younger man agreed flatly, "but I can sure as hell try."

It was almost four minutes, several muttered curses, and a few scratches to his wrists later when McCormick gloated, "Hah!"

"That was quick," Hardcastle said, almost admiringly.

"No," the kid countered, "that was slow, but the tools sort of suck. Now turn over so I can reach your hands."

Movement in the small space was difficult, but Hardcastle managed to get his back toward McCormick and then let the ex-con do his work. It took less than a minute for the cuffs to be removed from both his hands, then McCormick turned his attention to removing the bracelet dangling from his right hand.

"You didn't tell me handcuffing you was a waste of time," Hardcastle commented as he rubbed at his wrists.

McCormick grinned in the dark, finishing up his task. "Well, the secret's out now. Though I doubt if there was any safety wire in the nightstand, and the Gideon Bible wouldn't've done the trick."

A couple of seconds later, McCormick breathed out a sigh of relief. "Okay, now trade me places."

"What the hell for?"

"So I can get us out of here, whattaya think? There's a screwdriver over here, so popping the trunk will be a piece of cake."

"And then what?" Hardcastle demanded.

"Then we get out. Jeez, Hardcastle, what are you thinkin'?"

"I'm thinking that the car is moving—"

"We can't be doing more than thirty," McCormick chimed in before the judge could even finish his thought.

"And that we don't have any idea where we are—"

"We'll figure it out."

"But the guys with guns undoubtedly know their way around wherever it is—"

"We'll run fast."

"_And_, I also figure they're taking us exactly where we want to go."

McCormick stopped. That, at least, made some sense. Sort of.

"Well if we're just gonna stay trapped here," he complained, "I coulda saved myself the trouble with the handcuffs."

Hardcastle chuckled. "Nah. It gave you a good chance to show off some of your finer skills."

"Yeah, because I'm not in enough trouble without demonstrating my lock picking aptitude to the nearest officer of the court."

"Well, maybe we can keep that part to ourselves," Hardcastle grinned.

McCormick marveled at the lightness of the tone. This old guy was a real piece of work. Not that it would make much difference in the final outcome of things, but he thought he'd go into Quentin with a slightly different view of Hardcastle this time around. Assuming they lived through this.

"So what's the plan, then?" he asked, dragging his mind back to the moment. Calculating the odds between prison and death was depressing. "We just wait for them to deliver us wherever we're going and then come out swinging?"

"Yeah, basically. They won't be expecting any trouble, so it oughta be pretty easy to get the drop on 'em. And my guess is, once we start throwing a couple of felony kidnap charges in their direction, someone'll decide to cooperate."

"Really?" McCormick was surprised. "They don't strike me as the cooperative type. Besides, they were ready to commit murder; you really think they're worried about kidnapping?"

"Well, that's the thing with criminal types, kiddo. They're willing to do a lot of things when they're on the outside, willin' to take the risks. But it usually doesn't take too long in the lock-up before they'll start considering any reasonable offer that comes their way to get them out earlier." He paused, then added, "You know what that's like."

"Yeah," McCormick muttered, "I know all about that." He didn't try to hide the bitter weariness in his tone, but he was glad it was too dark to see the guilty expression that accompanied the words. He was pretty sure Hardcastle would never have believed it. Hell, he wasn't sure he believed it himself.

"And anyway," the judge continued, breaking into his thoughts, "your buddy, Rick, seems like the weak link. And if they've dragged him along into this, he's probably more involved than you thought. I think we've found our witness."

Mark sighed heavily as a whole new layer of weariness overtook him. "You know what he told me?" he asked dully. "He said he was gonna drive the Coyote; told me that at Flip's funeral. I didn't even know what to say to him."

"He wasn't?" Hardcastle asked.

"No. It was supposed to be me. Flip had it worked out."

"Then the car must be the bait they're stringing Vetromile along with. When he realizes they've been lying to him, he'll be that much more willing to cooperate."

McCormick took a second to contemplate the other man's unquestioning acceptance of the facts he'd been given, then decided he didn't really want to think about it after all. Distrust was easier to understand.

"Yeah," he finally answered, "maybe. Of course, maybe that really was Cody's plan, and it was Flip they were stringing along." He dragged a hand across his face. "Not that it really matters now. Nothin' really matters now."

00000

It had been almost ten minutes since McCormick had delivered his final, gloomy statement, and Hardcastle had almost instantly labeled the silence as unnatural. He'd already seen this kid in some pretty tight spots the couple of times their paths had crossed, and the mouth had been running non-stop even then. Even earlier today, when he'd caught up with the ex-con, McCormick hadn't exactly been at a loss for words. And, as annoying as the cracks could be, they seemed an integral part of the young man's make-up, probably a large part of his coping mechanism. And maybe—just maybe—a large part of what had caused him to choose this particular ex-con to begin with. For the second time in the space of just a few hours, Hardcastle found himself concerned with the sudden withdrawal.

"Whether Cody was stringing your friend along or not," the judge finally said into the quiet darkness, "it sounds like Johnson believed in you."

It took a few seconds, but then he heard the soft reply. "Yeah, Flip was great about that. It took more than a coupla years in Quentin to make him forget about a guy." A pause, then, "It woulda been great racing the Coyote, but the best thing was knowing that he wanted me to. That's why I had to take—" McCormick seemed to reconsider the words. "I mean, that's why I couldn't let Cody . . . well . . ." The aborted explanation trailed off into a quiet, rueful chuckle. "You know what I mean."

Hardcastle grinned. "It's not like it's a secret, kid. Besides, you already told me you've got the car; whattaya think you're hiding?"

He could hear the answering grin in McCormick's words.

"Well, Hardcase, even if it's just the difference between possession of stolen property and literally doing the stealing, you'll understand if I don't actually _confess_, right?"

"Sure, kid, whatever makes you comfortable." And Hardcastle discovered that he was relieved enough to have brought the kid back that he didn't even want to remind him that his silence wasn't going to make one bit of difference when it came time for the sentencing.

00000

When the car had begun slowing down, McCormick had reached back into the toolbox, feeling that he'd like it better if he had something approaching a weapon in his hands. So he had armed himself with a common screwdriver and Hardcastle with an adjustable wrench. The older man was clutching his 'weapon' tightly, though he seemed convinced that the element of surprise was all they were going to need to overpower their captors. McCormick didn't share his optimism, but he kept his doubts to himself.

Now that the car was stopped, Hardcastle was situated to literally go out swinging, but McCormick had positioned himself into a feet-first crouch, intending to lead with a kick. And when the lid popped open, they followed through almost flawlessly.

Hardcastle's right fist carried just a bit more weight wrapped around the wrench, and Vetromile went down immediately. The judge scrambled out of the trunk, dealing a blow to the racer's back to keep him on the ground.

McCormick landed a particularly ungraceful but effective heel to the middle of Ronnie's chest, sending him stumbling backward, but not for long. The goon steadied himself and moved back toward the car before McCormick managed to climb from the trunk. Trapped half in and half out, McCormick swung the screwdriver, driving it downward into Ronnie's shoulder, then shoved the other man off him, finally managing to make it clear of the trunk.

As he was righting himself and preparing for Ronnie's return, McCormick saw Vetromile struggle upward just enough to tackle Hardcastle around the knees, sending the judge sprawling to the ground. With a quick glance around what appeared to be a warehouse—and a split-second to wonder where Morgan had gotten to—McCormick sent a kick to Vetromile's gut and reached down to give Hardcastle a hand up, then lashed out with the screwdriver again, trying to keep Ronnie off balance. But he jerked as the unexpected shot rang out, the bullet flashing by his arm too close for comfort.

The explosion was echoing through the open space as Ronnie leaped across the small distance and tackled McCormick, finally pulling his own gun from its holster as Morgan emerged from a hallway, weapon trained on the group. The goon jerked McCormick to his feet, gun barrel jabbed against his neck.

"Move away from Vetromile," Ronnie ordered Hardcastle, and the judge stepped slowly away from the downed racer.

"What the hell is going on?" Morgan demanded as he reached the car.

"That's what I'd like to know," added Martin Cody as he stepped out of the shadows, moving to stand beside Morgan. He glared at the others. "I didn't think this assignment would be too difficult for you."

"I'm not sure what happened, Mr. Cody," Morgan began. He jerked his head toward Vetromile, who was pushing himself to his feet.

"Rick, get these guys cuffed again."

Vetromile shuffled over to the car and rummaged through the trunk, fishing out the handcuffs, then turned back to the others. He moved first to McCormick, cuffing his hands behind his back, then moved to Hardcastle and repeated the action.

Cody stepped closer to McCormick. "You've caused me a lot of trouble, Mr. McCormick," he whispered in oily anger.

Mark smiled grimly. "Glad to hear it, Mr. Cody. I'd hate to think I'd gone to all this effort for nothing." He wasn't entirely expecting the blow to the side of his head, but he thought it was probably worth it.

"I want that car," Cody said sternly.

McCormick looked back at him coolly. "And my uncle used to tell me that people in hell want ice water. Tough break."

Morgan's backhand across the face was pretty solid. "Don't give us any crap, McCormick," he ordered.

But Cody suddenly held up a calming hand, and rearranged his features into a smile. "No, that's okay, Joey. Mr. McCormick has been under some strain lately, what with losing his friend and all." He looked back at Mark. "Let's try to work this out, McCormick. What do you want?"

"We already discussed my terms," McCormick told him, "but it looks like I was right to be worried about going into business with you. It's obviously a dangerous proposition."

"Your terms were . . . _extreme_," Cody answered. "We need to work out something more amenable to my way of thinking, though it could still be beneficial for you. Starting with the fact that you and your friend here will both get to live through the night." He was still showing a shark-like smile. "I can be a reasonable man."

McCormick matched the insincere smile. "There's not enough reason in the world, Cody."

Cody glared for a few seconds, then turned away dismissively. "Change his mind, Joey," he directed, as he disappeared back down the hallway.

Morgan glanced at the remaining men and gestured with his weapon. "In the back, Ronnie." He let the others hustle their prisoners down another hallway, then followed behind.

00000

All in all, McCormick thought he was holding up pretty well.

Morgan and his guys had taken them back to a smaller room, though it was still concrete and fairly barren. Hardcastle's handcuffs had been removed long enough to tie his hands securely with ropes instead—Morgan having decided that the cuffs didn't seem to be all that much of a restraint—and then the one bracelet had been snapped around his wrist again, the other secured to the chair in which he sat. Then they had bound his feet to the legs of the chair, making certain he was immobile.

McCormick didn't even get the benefit of a chair. There wasn't much furniture in their prison room, but it did have two cinderblock columns that ran floor to ceiling. McCormick thought they were too small to really be structural, but they were certainly too ugly to be decorative. But they were fairly functional for securing uncooperative prisoners. He was up against the column nearest Hardcastle, hands pulled behind the blocks, rope wound around his arms, binding him to the column. There wasn't much room for movement, and the way he was sagging now, after a sustained half-hour of methodical reprisal for his escape attempt, the tension against his arms was even greater. He thought about trying to shimmy down to a seated position, but it seemed like more trouble than it was worth, and besides, he figured Morgan and his guys would be back, and he'd just as soon be standing when the beating began again. He blinked, trying to clear an annoying trickle of blood from his left eye, but that wasn't working, so he gave up and looked over at Hardcastle.

"So," he began, "if we were to mange some sort of miracle escape right about now, Judge, what kinda charges could you get against Cody?"

Hardcastle looked at him skeptically. "You think we're in any position to stage a miracle escape?"

McCormick chortled, but it ended in a gasp as he felt a stab of pain in his side. He decided he was glad he hadn't tried to move around too much.

"You okay?" Hardcastle asked in concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just hafta remember no deep breaths during the miracle escape."

"Well, anyway, kiddo, to answer your question, kidnapping would be a pretty slam dunk case against the guy; aggravated assault, or at least conspiracy to commit. Maybe even extortion, if we could prove you had any claim to the car at all."

"But not murder."

Hardcastle shook his head. "Even you know we still don't have anything remotely close to that."

"So what do I need to do to get to that?"

The judge looked at him closely. "Look, McCormick, I know you want him, but—"

"But nothing," McCormick interrupted, trying not to raise his voice. "That's what I started this whole thing for. I'm willing to give up a lot for this, Hardcastle, but Cody has to go to jail for a long, long time."

"And he will," Hardcastle said. "The charges I'm talking about will put him behind bars for years. And the DA can probably cook up a couple more, if they put their minds to it."

"But—"

"I think it's gonna have to do," Hardcastle told him firmly.

Mark sighed, but he didn't argue. "Well," he said sullenly, "now we just gotta figure out the escape part."

The judge looked over at him critically. "Yeah, I've got a thought about that, too, but you're not gonna like it," he predicted.

"I'm not sure there's much I'd like less than this," McCormick replied, jerking against his bonds, though he could feel the stabbing in his side again. He ignored it, and began dragging the ropes against the corner of the concrete, hoping to get lucky. "So what's your idea?"

"You need to think about giving them the car," Hardcastle said quietly.

McCormick's movements came to an immediate stop. "No."

"It's a simple trade; besides, you can't very well put Cody away if you're his prisoner. Or his victim."

"You don't seriously think he's gonna let me go, no matter what I do?"

"Listen," the older man began, but he didn't get any further.

"_You_ listen," McCormick said harshly. "I'm _not_ giving him the car. If you think I'm gonna go back to prison—probably for even longer than Cody—without proving that he had Flip murdered and then he's _still_ gonna end up with the Coyote, then you're crazier than I ever thought you could be. They'll have to beat me to death."

"I sorta think that's what they have in mind," Hardcastle said gruffly, "so don't be stupid. I understand how you felt about your friend, but I doubt that he'd've wanted you to die for a car. _Any_ car."

"I doubt that _he_wanted to die for a car, either," McCormick told the judge as he began rubbing his ropes against the blocks again, "but he did. And I don't intend to just forget about that. You can do a lot of things to me, Hardcastle, but you can't make me forget, and you can't make me give up the car." He glared defiantly across the distance separating them.

Hardcastle sighed in exasperation. "This isn't about what I can do to you, hotshot, it's about what they can do to you. These guys don't like this game you're playing, and they're gonna lose patience before too much longer. If Cody needs the car for that exhibition tomorrow, then you're on a deadline."

McCormick kept glaring, and continued working his ropes, but he didn't respond.

After a couple of tensely silent moments, Hardcastle said plainly, "They'll kill you, McCormick."

"Yeah, well, at least then you'd be saved the trouble of fillin' out all that paperwork to put me back inside," Mark snapped.

"If you think that's what I want, then you're crazier than I am, kid."

The young man stilled his hands again, and finally dropped his gaze from the judge's eyes. "No," he said glumly, surprised to find himself feeling a little ashamed, "that's not what I think." He thought for a second, then added, "But we obviously have different priorities, Judge. I can't explain it, but this is important to me; I can't let Cody get away with this, even if it kills me."

00000

There hadn't been much to say to McCormick after he'd made his dire proclamation, so Hardcastle had simply let the ex-con go quietly back to trying to wear down the bonds that held him. The judge had watched, trying to decide if the other man was making any progress, but the only things visible on the kid's face had been the winces of pain whenever he jolted undoubtedly cracked ribs, and a grim determination.

It was interesting, Hardcastle thought, the comment about their priorities. Obviously, nothing was more important to McCormick than bringing Cody to justice; the young man had just been too blinded by too many years in the system to recognize that they had shared that goal—at least for a few hours. Of course, the judge would admit that Cody had become secondary for him once McCormick had skipped out, but maybe his own blind spot had been in believing that catching Cody was always secondary to the ex-con, ranking behind personal freedom. He'd obviously been wrong about that, and he liked the idea that the kid could be driven by such a single-minded pursuit of justice, even if it was based on a purely personal motivation.

He watched the other man a moment longer; McCormick was continuing his attempts at loosening the ropes, heedless of the beating he'd already sustained, and the fact that he had to be rubbing his arms raw in the process. Yeah, he thought there was a lot to like about that kind of resolve. Even so, he thought it wouldn't be unreasonable if McCormick decided that staying alive should move into the top priority spot. He would not have been able to explain his certainty that giving up was never going to be an option for the other man.

He looked over quickly as he heard the door pushing open. "Hey," he whispered across the room, "knock it off; they're back." He was relieved when McCormick immediately did as he was told. The kid even managed to lose the look of intensity and purpose that had been on his face, and adopted a sullenly insolent pose that Hardcastle would've sworn was normally reserved for members of the judiciary. But the judge noticed McCormick couldn't quite hide the look of relief when he saw that it was Rick Vetromile stepping into the room, rather than one of the other men.

Vetromile crossed the floor, sparing not much more than a glance at the judge, and came to a stop just inches in front of McCormick. He shook his head. "Jeez, Skid, you don't look so good."

McCormick scoffed at the other man, though Hardcastle thought the pain from his ribs wasn't the only reason to re-think that approach.

"What was it you thought was gonna happen, Rabbit?" he asked snidely. "Did you think they were invitin' me over for tea?"

"Look, Mark," Vetromile said, dragging a hand across his head, "I didn't want you to get hurt, but I can't control these guys. Cody's crazy. He wants that car, and he's gonna do anything he has to to get it."

"Would he kill Flip for it?" Mark said quietly.

Hardcastle watched the exchange closely, trying to draw his own conclusions about the answer that was about to be given. He also wanted to gather further impressions of Vetromile himself—decide if he really seemed the logical choice to be their witness. He tried _not_ to draw any further conclusions about McCormick; they might be on the same side for the moment, but that was destined to be a short-term situation.

But Rick was hedging on the question. "You ought to be more worried about whether he'd kill _you_," he told McCormick. "You need to give him the car."

McCormick sighed tiredly and shifted a little against his post. "You sound like a judge I know. But what's in all this for you, Rick? You see what's going on here; why're you with these guys?"

"I'm just a driver, Skid. I do what I'm told."

"And hope that kind of blind obedience gets you a better ride, huh?" McCormick fixed his gaze on Vetromile. "Well, let me tell you, Rabbit; you're not just a driver anymore; you're a kidnapper. And if you don't start making some different choices, my guess is you're going to be a murderer before much longer. Hell, maybe you already are, I dunno."

"I'm not a murderer," Vetromile shot back angrily. "_I_ didn't kill no one."

Hardcastle raised an eyebrow slightly at the emphasis and gave an encouraging nod to McCormick to keep the guy talking.

"Knowing about it and keepin' quiet makes you just as guilty," McCormick said. "Just ask the judge." He jerked his head toward the older man.

Vetromile seemed almost compelled to turn to look at the jurist, and the question on his face said he desperately hoped McCormick was wrong.

Hardcastle shrugged as much as his binding would allow. "Easily an accessory," he replied nonchalantly. This didn't seem like the time to supplement McCormick's fairly simplistic explanation of the law with a more accurate version. And besides, as uneasy as Vetromile looked, he figured 'knowing about it' wasn't really all that the man had to hide.

"And if they should happen to kill McCormick," the judge went on calmly, "you'll probably get at least murder two."

"But—"

Hardcastle shook his head. "No buts. Here you are, knowing he's in mortal danger, and you have the opportunity to release him, to protect him. By keeping him confined, you're _allowing_ whatever happens. That's a whole lot worse than just knowing about it after the fact, and it's gonna make you just as guilty as the rest of them." Again, broad strokes and worst case scenarios seemed the best approach.

Vetromile twisted his hands nervously. "I don't want anything to happen to him," he said to no one in particular. "I wish no one had gotten hurt."

"You can make a difference here, Vetromile," Hardcastle told him. "You can let us go, or call for help. And you can tell what you know about what happened to Johnson."

The racer looked between the other men uncertainly. "I'm supposed to be in here convincing you to give up the Coyote," he finally said to Mark.

"Never gonna happen," McCormick replied instantly.

"Someone should get to drive it."

For an instant, Hardcastle thought it might actually be a good thing that McCormick was tied in place, because the look that flashed across his face said he might've taken Vetromile's head off for that last comment.

"Are you tellin' me you'd trade Flip's life for a _ride_, Rabbit?" McCormick asked dangerously. "Or even mine?"

"That's not what I meant," Rick answered defensively, "but, dammit, Mark, you know how important this could be for me. Give Cody the car; you'll be safe and I'll get my shot."

The ex-con's eyes narrowed. "You really think you can trust anything he says? Flip was gonna let _me_ drive the Coyote." He paused for a beat, then went on, "And do you really think Cody's gonna let you anywhere near it when he finds out you helped me steal it?"

"_What_?" Vetromile shouted the question into McCormick's face. "You can't tell him that!" He took a step back and puffed himself up. "Besides . . . he'd never believe you."

"He will when he starts wondering how I knew the layout of his factory so well," Mark said smugly, "and how I managed to get through security without a hitch. Yeah, I think he'll believe it, no questions asked." He jerked his head sideways. "Good thing there's another one of these columns over there; I think you might be needin' it."

Hardcastle had to give the kid credit; it was a pretty good bluff. _I hope it's a bluff_, he thought suddenly. But he pushed the thought aside. He didn't really think McCormick would deliberately turn anyone over to Cody's goons, but there was an undeniable risk to this kind of gambit. Of course, he also thought people such as Vetromile exposed themselves to a certain amount of risk; it came with the territory.

But if Vetromile's increased hand wringing and nervous expression were anything to judge by, he didn't seem to think McCormick was bluffing. "I can't get you out of this," he whispered harshly to McCormick, "but that doesn't mean you have to drag me down with you."

"I'm taking down anyone who had anything to do with Flip's death," McCormick answered with an eerie finality that even managed to scare Hardcastle just a little bit.

Vetromile took one last long look at his prisoner, cast a worried glance behind him—almost as if he was hoping for some sort of reprieve from the legal quarter—then strode from the small room without another word.

The door had barely closed behind him before McCormick was back to scraping his ropes against the bricks. "This might actually be making some progress," he said distractedly.

"That's all you have to say?" Hardcastle asked, surprised.

Mark raised an eyebrow and looked over at the other man. "Whattaya mean? It wouldn't kill you to start trying to get loose, too, ya know."

"Handcuffs," Hardcastle reminded him, tugging briefly on the chain against the chair. "And I don't have your finer skills."

McCormick rolled his eyes and went back to his task.

"What I'm talkin' about, kiddo, is your little performance with Vetromile."

"Oh, that." He seemed to give it a little thought. "You're not gonna try and pile some kinda extra charges on me, or something, are ya? It can't be against the law to threaten someone who's got you tied to a post."

"You are single-minded, ya know that?" Hardcastle grumped. "What I was gonna say, wiseguy, is that I thought that was a pretty good idea. Don't know if it'll work, but maybe he'll at least think about it."

"Oh. Okay." He started sawing his ropes again.

For a few moments the only sound was rope against concrete, but then McCormick spoke again. "You know," he said conversationally, never slowing his hands, "I never asked you how you found me."

Hardcastle smiled slightly. "You mean, how come I didn't go lookin' for you up in Fresno?"

Mark quirked a grin. "Too obvious?"

"Oh, not really," the judge conceded. "The cops fell for it. But then, they couldn't afford to pass up the chance that it mighta been legit."

"I was kinda counting on that."

"Just weren't counting on me, I guess."

"Didn't figure you for such a hands-on guy," McCormick admitted.

"Pullin' you out of that cell after midnight and takin' you home didn't give you a clue?" Hardcastle wondered.

The young man chuckled as he worked his ropes. "Shoulda, I guess." He sobered. "But I told ya; I didn't think it was gonna work. I figured you were . . . I dunno, not playing a game, that's not it. But maybe I didn't think you'd thought everything through; thought you mighta gotten in over your head."

"You thought _I_was in over my head?" Hardcastle was mystified by the idea of it. "I wasn't the one holdin' the one way pass back to Quentin."

"No, s'pose not."

"Maybe you should've told me what you were thinkin', instead of just takin' off," the judge suggested mildly.

"Hah. That would've been a pretty quick way of cashin' in that pass, dontcha think?" He shook his head. "I told ya; going back inside wouldn't've been nearly as bad as going back inside without getting Cody."

Hardcastle stared at him. "I don't understand why you're so fixated on the idea that all I want to do is put you back behind bars. I'm the guy who made you a deal."

"You're the guy who sent me to jail for driving my own car," McCormick said with just a touch of bitterness. "If you'd put me in jail for that, why wouldn't I think you'd do it if you ever had anything close to a _real_ reason?"

As far as paranoid delusions went, Hardcastle thought that one might make a little more sense than most. Maybe he had been expecting too much. Hell, maybe the kid was right, and he _hadn't_ really thought things through. He didn't like that idea at all, though he wasn't sure which was worse—that maybe he was wrong, or maybe McCormick was right.

00000

McCormick wasn't sure why the old guy had quit talking, but it hadn't taken him long to decide he thought that was just as well. He was also unsure why he'd tried to engage the man in conversation to begin with; just something to pass the time while he tried to cut these ropes, he supposed. That, and he thought if you were tied up in a room with a guy, maybe you ought to try and talk to him. If there wasn't some kind of code, there probably ought to be. Still, he'd found himself being more honest than he'd intended, and the talk had drifted into areas he'd just as soon not dwell on, so the silence wasn't bothering him one bit.

He'd been enjoying that silence for a while, industriously working the ropes against the corners of the blocks, when he heard the door being opened again. He didn't need the judge's whispered warning this time to bring his efforts to a halt, but he found that he appreciated it just the same. He straightened as much as he could, and looked levelly across the room as Morgan walked in, followed by his own right-hand man, Ronnie.

"You're looking better than the last time I was here," Morgan said, coming to a stop in front of the ex-con.

"So you figured it was time to do something about that?" McCormick guessed.

"Rick did say you weren't being very cooperative. He was not very pleased."

"Yeah, Rick's just startin' to realize he may've burned his bridges from both ends."

Morgan didn't seem to care for the abstract. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, you guys've made it clear you're not gonna pay for the Coyote, so I'm not gonna be able to pay him his share for helping me steal it, and I'm sure as hell not gonna give it back to you for free, so he's not even gonna get to drive it. Kind of a losing proposition all the way around for him."

Suddenly Morgan's hand was at McCormick's throat, pushing him against the post. "He helped you steal it?"

Mark tried not to swallow against the fingers tightening around his throat. "Sure he did," he rasped out with as much confidence as he could muster. "You think I coulda managed that on my own?"

"What I figured," Morgan growled, increasing the pressure, "is that your buddy, Johnson, had been running his mouth before he died and you got your information from him."

Through the spots that were forming, McCormick could see Hardcastle straining against his own bonds, though nobody was worried about the other man. Morgan's full attention was focused on slowly choking his prisoner to unconsciousness—or worse—and Ronnie seemed to be enjoying watching the show. Too bad the judge wasn't in any position to actually help.

"Believe what you want," McCormick finally managed to answer in a voice barely above a whisper. "But you oughta be watching Rick a little closer."

Finally Ronnie took a step closer and said quietly, "Hey, Joey, Mr. Cody wants this one alive for now, doesn't he?"

It took a few more seconds, but finally, almost reluctantly, Morgan released his grip. "Lucky for you," he said harshly, as he stepped back from McCormick.

"My lucky day, all right," McCormick returned, though the retort didn't have quite the fire he would've liked. He kept a wary eye on Morgan, though he was painfully aware that watching would do nothing except prepare him for whatever was coming.

But Morgan didn't seem to have any more immediate plans for the man. He looked speculatively between his two prisoners. "You know you're alone here, right?" he asked. "This guy," he poked a finger toward Hardcastle, "probably thinks he's pretty connected, but he's on our turf now, not his. And you, McCormick, we all know you've buried your last friend."

"What's your point?" Hardcastle broke in, and McCormick was grateful for the brief diversion.

"My point," Morgan said, still directing his comments to McCormick, "is that you need to understand that you can't win this. Mr. Cody will get his car; the only question now is how badly you're gonna get hurt before it happens." He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and maybe how many other people will get hurt." He turned slowly and looked meaningfully at Hardcastle.

McCormick wasn't surprised to see the judge remain stoic in the face of the new threat, though he thought his own heartbeat might've just about doubled at Morgan's words. He'd meant what he told the man back in the trunk; he wasn't prepared to let him die. But he also wasn't prepared to give up the car to these men, nor did he honestly believe that Cody had any intention of releasing them, even if the Coyote were returned.

What he finally said was, "Hardcastle isn't involved in this, except that he doesn't care much more about me than you guys do. He'd like to see me turn over the car just so he can finally lock me back up again; I'm not in any hurry to make anything easy on any of you."

Morgan looked at him speculatively. "You sure did want to keep him alive a few hours ago," he pointed out.

"I don't want to see anyone die," McCormick allowed, "but like you pointed out, I've already buried the only person who really matters to me." He managed something close to a shrug. "Hardcastle's gonna come pretty far down the list of concerns."

"Really?" Morgan didn't seem entirely convinced. "Let's see if you feel any different after Ronnie talks to the old man for a little while." He started toward the door. "I'm gonna go talk to Rick," he said casually, "Ronnie, see if you can't get the judge to convince McCormick to do the right thing." Then he left the man to do his bidding.

McCormick struggled against the ropes, no longer concerned with discretion, as he watched Ronnie pull a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and slip them onto his hands. He winced as the first fist plowed into Hardcastle's stomach, forcing a grunt from the man. The sound was more excruciating than he would've thought. And the sound of leather against the judge's cheek—which Hardcastle endured noiselessly—was even worse.

He tried to block out the sounds as he focused only on the ropes, but he let his eyes meet Hardcastle's, forcing himself not to look away, and tried to send a silent promise that he wouldn't let this go unanswered.

00000

"I'll be back," Ronnie said, "and, personally, I'm hoping you don't give Cody the car. Between the two of you, I could keep busy for quite a while."

McCormick shivered slightly at the creepy grin on the guy's face as he vanished out the door. He turned his attention to Hardcastle.

"Judge?" he asked tentatively. "You okay?" He thought that was a pretty stupid question, really; the man had just been beaten by a guy who enjoyed his work way too much. He'd be satisfied if Hardcastle was still conscious. "Judge?"

Hardcastle groaned and lifted his chin off his chest, raising his eyes to look across at McCormick. "Yeah, kid, I'm fine." The words came out a little slow and thick, belying their credibility. The judge seemed to recognize that fact before McCormick could call him on it. "Okay," he amended, "maybe not exactly fine. But I'm all right. No permanent damage."

"Jeez, Hardcastle," Mark lamented, "if I look anywhere near as bad as you do, we're in pretty bad shape."

The judge chuckled. "We probably do make quite the pair."

"Okay." The ex-con sighed deeply.

"'Okay' what?" Hardcastle prodded, when McCormick didn't say anything further.

"Okay, I'll give 'em the car." He looked quickly down at his feet. "I shoulda stopped him," he went on quietly, "and I'm really sorry I dragged you into this."

The judge's eyes widened. With the white standing out against red welts that would soon be purple, McCormick thought the effect was pretty ghoulish. Or maybe that was the anger radiating from the puffy eyes and cracked lips.

"What?"

Hardcastle blew out a breath. "Listen, McCormick. First of all, you didn't drag me into anything. In fact, seems to me you went to a lot of trouble to leave me out of it."

McCormick almost grinned, but he wasn't sure that was supposed to be an absolution, and, also, he got the feeling Hardcastle wasn't finished yet.

"And in the second place," the jurist went on, "I don't want you to give them the car."

McCormick was so shocked he lost his rhythm with the rope and scraped his wrist across the concrete block with full force. "Dammit!" He rearranged the rope to the spot that was gradually thinning and resumed the work, then glared over at the judge. "What the hell are you talking about now, Hardcase?

"I don't like people who let their fists do their talking."

"And who does? But aren't you the guy who was telling me a coupla hours ago that I just needed to turn the thing over to Cody and get out?"

"That mighta been premature," Hardcastle admitted. "That car's the only thing keepin' us alive right now; once they have it, I think we're done for."

"I think I said that already," McCormick said testily. "I honestly don't get you at all."

"All right," Hardcastle huffed back, "maybe I was wrong, okay? But now they've made me mad, and I'm not feelin' particularly inclined to do anything they want me to do."

"I think I said that, too," Mark muttered under his breath. He raised his voice. "Then you need to come up with some kind of plan, Hardcastle, because I won't stand here and watch them beat you again."

"Maybe we can convince them to let us take them to the car," the judge suggested.

"You really think they'd go for that?" McCormick was surprised the old man could be that naïve.

"Doubtful. But you seem to be pretty good at spinning a line of crap, so it might work."

This time the ex-con allowed the grin. "Maybe you're a better judge of character than I thought."

Hardcastle grinned back at him. "And don't forget it. How's the rope coming?"

"It's coming. They'll wish they'd trusted their handcuffs before too much longer."

"No doubt; though if you could work faster, that would be good. My guess is we don't have a lot of time left to make something work."

"Ya think?" McCormick felt a moment of panic. "I've kinda lost track of time. How long do you think we've been here?"

"Dunno exactly. I figure it's gotta be a few hours since they grabbed us, maybe more, and it hadda be after four then. When is Cody's demonstration, anyway; do you know?"

"Um, one-thirty, I think."

"Then they're probably gonna get more nervous by the minute."

"Probably," McCormick agreed, increasing the speed of his rope. "But I'm better with locks and safety wire than knots and cinderblocks."

"Just keep working," the judge instructed grimly.

00000

McCormick was still finding it difficult to keep track of the time, but he thought maybe another hour had gone by. It had been long enough that he'd almost reached the breaking point with one of the rope strands surrounding him and had moved on to the other, and Hardcastle had dozed off slightly in his chair. Not that he blamed the guy—he thought the judge was probably hurting more than he let on after Ronnie's visit. But he knew it hadn't been nearly long enough when the door flew open and Morgan came stomping back into the room.

"Where is he?" he demanded loudly as he approached McCormick.

Mark saw that Hardcastle had jolted back to alertness and that Ronnie had also entered the room, stopping only inches from the judge. For once, McCormick found himself thinking a straight answer might be a good idea, if only he had any idea what the hell the guy was talking about.

"What are you talking about, Morgan?" Maybe the guy would recognize it as honest confusion.

Almost simultaneous fists smashed into the two prisoners' guts. McCormick thought maybe Morgan hadn't recognized his sincerity after all.

"Seriously, Morgan, I don't know what you want to know."

Again the goons drove their fists into stomachs, and Morgan followed his with a backhand across McCormick's face. "Where is he?" he repeated.

McCormick thought quickly and took a chance. "Vetromile?"

Morgan grabbed a handful of hair and slammed McCormick's head against the concrete. "Don't play dumb with me, McCormick; of course Vetromile. Now where is he? Did you send him after the car?"

"Ah . . ." McCormick tried to focus, but he was suddenly feeling a little fuzzy.

"Maybe this'll jar your memory," Morgan said, pulling his head forward then bouncing it against the post again.

"Hey!" Hardcastle shouted. "That's not gonna help him talk," he pointed out reasonably, but he was rewarded with an open hand to the back of his head.

"Car," McCormick was saying, almost dazedly, blinking his eyes rapidly, "uh, no. I didn't send him after the car." He took a breath and tried to prepare himself. "I sent him after the cops." He thought he saw Hardcastle smirk a little bit at that, but they both ended up paying the price. McCormick gave his head a half-shake and reminded himself to watch the attitude. It was bad enough being responsible for his own beatings; he really didn't want to bring them on someone else.

On the other hand, he sure as hell didn't want to think about the lunacy that made him responsible for protecting Milton C. Hardcastle.

00000

Judge Hardcastle thought that things were not going quite as he had expected. Of course, being dumped into the trunk of a car should probably have been an early warning of things to come, but this current situation had definitely not been part of the plan. He'd given up on trying to reason with his captors; Morgan was in a blind rage, and Ronnie just had too much fun knocking people around.

McCormick had slipped into unconsciousness—he hoped it was only unconsciousness—several minutes earlier, making the continued pounding pointless, but Morgan showed no sign of letting up. Hardcastle had seen the young man several times looking in his direction, his eyes still full of anger and defiance, and yet also holding a touch of concern for the damage Ronnie was doing to his prisoner. He was certain McCormick had been trying to send a message; offering to give in and give the men what they wanted if only the judge would agree. But each time, Hardcastle had shaken his head, knowing that he was committing them both to more immediate pain, but certain it was the only way to stay alive. He was beginning to wonder if he'd been mistaken about that. And yet, he couldn't deny a certain amount of satisfaction that the kid had done as he'd asked. Now though, with McCormick even more helpless than ever, it was going to be up to him to find a way to call off the goons.

"He can't tell you anything right now," he called harshly across the room, "and if you kill him, he's never gonna be able to."

Morgan gave McCormick's face one more hard right punch, then whirled around. "Then maybe I should start asking you," he said, moving menacingly toward Hardcastle.

"I came here to arrest him," the judge reminded him. "I'm the last person he'd tell about a stolen car."

Morgan's fist had already drawn back, but then he hesitated, almost as if he hadn't expected to hear anything so remotely logical from the older man. "They must've been talking about something," he barked out after a few seconds.

Hardcastle gave that some thought. "Vetromile didn't want McCormick blowing the whistle on him; that I got." He tried to remember what he knew. "I think they might've been talking about his place having enough space to stash something that needed to stay hidden." He shook his head slowly. "But other than that, I don't think there's anything I can tell you. And if you keep pounding on McCormick like that, he's not gonna be able to tell you much else, either." He held his breath, but Morgan seemed to have already forgotten about him.

"You don't _really_ think they'd keep it at Vetromile's place?" Morgan was saying to Ronnie.

"Rick's not the brightest bulb in the box," Ronnie replied soberly, and Hardcastle had to work at not laughing at the irony of that particular observation from that particular source.

And then Joey was visibly thinking again. After a moment he declared, "We should both go; these two aren't going anywhere, and Cody might want us to bring Vetromile back."

Ronnie seemed only mildly disappointed as he nodded and followed Morgan out of the room.

He waited only a few seconds to be sure they were gone before Hardcastle began calling out to the other man. "McCormick? Hey, McCormick!" When he didn't receive a response, he peered more closely across the distance separating them. He was pretty sure the kid was breathing, but he'd feel better if there were some movement or something.

When he called out a few more times but still got no answer, the judge sighed, decided that the fifteen feet between them wasn't all that far, and began scooting himself and his chair toward the unconscious man. The going was slow—he certainly didn't want to get carried away and tip himself over—and he could feel the strain in muscles that felt like they'd already been through enough today, but he made steady progress.

When he finally reached McCormick's side, he was relieved to see the steady rise and fall of the young man's chest. He couldn't make anything approaching a thorough examination, so he just had to hope that nothing was broken and there weren't internal injuries slowly continuing the damage. He peered around behind the post to inspect the progress on the bindings, and winced as he saw the bloodied forearms. In his tee shirt, McCormick had had nothing to protect his skin. But he was surprised to see that the ropes were almost severed. The first strand was merely a breath away from breaking and the second wouldn't take much more convincing to give way as well. Hardcastle stared for a moment and wondered why the ex-con hadn't told him he was making such progress toward escape.

_He wasn't planning on taking you with him._ The thought sprang fully-formed into his mind, and—no matter how he tried—would not be denied.

"That can't be true," he murmured to himself, still looking at the unconscious man. He thought he might've misjudged a lot of things over the last couple of days, but McCormick leaving him here to fend for himself with Cody and his goons still seemed to fall into the impossible category.

_So why didn't he tell you he was almost free?_

That seemed a reasonable question, though Hardcastle didn't have much of a response. He supposed it was possible the young man hadn't realized himself how close he was getting, but that seemed unlikely. Or maybe he was trying not to get anyone's hopes up. That seemed easier to believe, though Hardcastle couldn't quite manage to let go of the niggling doubt that had suddenly planted itself at the forefront of his thoughts.

But as he watched the young man a moment longer, and heard the low moans as he began to stir, Hardcastle thought the kid hadn't been at all secretive about the fact that he was trying to get loose. He also thought the young man could've at least tried to bargain his way to freedom at any time—with or without him—and yet McCormick had only considered giving up the Coyote when the goons had started beating on someone else. It might not be quite enough to erase the doubt entirely, but he managed to push it to the corner of his mind.

"McCormick," he said, trying to draw the man toward consciousness, "can you hear me?" The ex-con squirmed a little, but didn't wake up. Hardcastle put a little more force into his voice. "McCormick!" That seemed to almost get through.

"Huh?" McCormick answered thickly, still not opening his eyes. "Whut?"

"McCormick! Snap out of it! You need to wake up. Can you hear me?"

The young man's eyes opened slowly and he squinted across the room, not seeming focused on anything. "'M 'wake," he muttered. He swallowed, then tried it again. "I'm awake," he said more clearly. Then his eyes drifted shut and he pulled in a long breath, but just a second later, his eyes flew open again and he stiffened against his post.

"Hardcastle!" His voice was weaker than it had been earlier, and a touch raspy, but the note of panic was unmistakable.

"I'm here," Hardcastle reassured him quickly.

Mark turned his head toward the voice. "Judge. Jeez. How'd you get over there? Are you all right?"

Hardcastle was surprised by the undisguised display of concern. He gave his head a slight shake and his suspicions got pushed a little further aside. "I'm fine," he said gruffly. "It wasn't me who was takin' a nap after those guys left."

McCormick snorted. "Yeah. Sorry to be falling down on the job. Hope I didn't miss anything important."

The jurist grinned slightly and looked appraisingly at the other man. Other than a crack or two around the eyes and mouth, there was no sign of blood, and the lip was running within seconds of regaining consciousness; he had to figure that meant no permanent damage had been done. He brought the kid up to date. "Morgan and his buddy are gone, at least for the moment. They're pretty sure Vetromile's got the car, or at least knows where it is. I sort of hinted to them it might be hidden out at that place of his you told me about."

McCormick grinned right back at him. "Well then, I hope he wasn't dumb enough to go home. So that buys us a little bit of time—" He broke off suddenly, then added, "unless I've been out for a while?"

"Nah, just a few minutes. We've probably got a while."

"All right then, Kemosabe, what now?"

Hardcastle watched him closely as he asked calmly, "How're you comin' with those ropes?"

"Good," McCormick replied without hesitation. "They're just about—" He stopped again and fixed the older man with a glare. "But you knew that already, didn't you? I know you'd be able to see from there, and there's no way you didn't check while I was out." He shook his head roughly. "Dammit, Hardcastle, why're you—?" His words halted one more time, then he huffed impatiently. "Never mind. Just so you know, it had never occurred to me to leave you here with them." He narrowed his eyes. "Could be I just wasn't thinking straight."

The judge almost smiled at that, but he forced it down. "You might want to save the righteous indignation bit for someone on more solid ground, kiddo."

"And you might want to save the holier than thou bit for someone not chained up like a punching bag for a coupla crazy mobsters," McCormick shot back.

Hardcastle did smile a little then, as he steered them back on topic. "So you gonna be able to get outta those ropes or not, hotshot?"

McCormick had already gone back to work. "Yeah. I don't think it'll take too much longer." He looked around the room, then back over at the judge. "You might want to think about scootin' back over where you belong, just in case. No sense pissin' 'em off for nothing." The corner of his mouth twitched upward for just a second. "But thanks for comin' over to check on me."

The older man just shrugged slightly as he began his movement back to his original position. "You're still technically in my custody until we can get you back to someone else; it'd look bad if I let you die on me."

"See?" Mark said smugly. "Then you know exactly how _I_ feel. Just imagine how bad the reverse would look for me."

Hardcastle couldn't stop the chuckle that bubbled from him as he scooted back into place.

00000

McCormick had been sawing at the remaining strand of rope for a while. He thought one more good tug against them ought to do the trick and was just about to share the news when the door to their prison swung open again. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath. Trying to make a move against armed thugs while Hardcastle was still trussed up like a sitting duck was going to be tricky. But he was surprised to see Martin Cody rather than Joey Morgan striding into the room.

It was a strange effect, he thought, the way Cody glided into the concrete room in his tailored suit and perfectly buffed shoes, clearly in control but so obviously out of place. He raised his eyes to meet the approaching man. "Cody."

The backhand across the face was immediate and a diamond encrusted monogram ring started a fresh trickle of blood from McCormick's lip. "_Mr_. Cody," Cody corrected.

"Whatever," McCormick replied blandly.

Another backhand. "No, not 'whatever'. _Mr. Cody_. It's a matter of respect, and that's what started this whole problem. First Johnny Johnson doesn't have any respect for my position and the things I could do for him—"

"You mean he wasn't afraid of what you could do _to_him," McCormick interrupted, mindless of the slap he knew would be coming. He hadn't anticipated the short punch to his kidney, and he was beginning to think it would be something of a miracle if his ribs were still intact by the time he left here. He pushed aside the thought that by the time he left here his ribs might not matter. Then he saw Hardcastle glaring across the room, shaking his head firmly, the message clearly to stop being so antagonistic. He let out a noiseless sigh. "All right, _Mr_. Cody, what do you want?"

Hardcastle didn't seem to think that was much better, but McCormick thought it was the best he could do.

"What do I _want_?" Cody was disbelieving. "I want what I've always wanted. I want what's mine. I want that car."

"I thought your goons were going to get it from Rick," McCormick suggested.

"Vetromile's gone," Cody said shortly, and McCormick felt his breath catch before the man continued, "they can't find him anywhere. They're still looking."

McCormick started breathing again, and even Hardcastle looked relieved. "He's probably with the cops by now. If you were smart, you'd get lost yourself."

"He's not going to go to the cops and tell them he helped you steal a car," the older man said confidently. "Morgan will find him. In the meantime, that leaves you to tell me where the Coyote is."

"I offered to sell it back to you," Mark reminded him. "The offer still stands."

"And the offer is still ridiculous. I'm not paying you a quarter of a million for something that belongs to me."

"Whether or not it belongs to you could very easily be a matter for the courts to decide at this point," Hardcastle chimed in. "And that's not something that's going to be resolved in time for your display today."

Cody whirled around. "Aren't you a _judge_? Are you telling me you agree with this blackmail?"

The jurist gave a fractional shrug. "Blackmail would be tricky to prove. There's an estate of a verifiable owner claiming rights to the property and asking McCormick to operate on their behalf. He says he's the beneficiary of the deceased partial owner. And, he's in possession of the car. It sounds like he just might have the right to negotiate ownership."

McCormick kept the surprise from his face. But he admitted to himself a grudging respect for a man that, through a series of carefully selected words, managed to make a total falsehood sound completely plausible. And the words must have been plausible enough to anger Cody even further, because he suddenly drew back his fist and popped Hardcastle in the face.

"I'm not paying you for my car," he sneered, turning back to McCormick, "but here's my deal: you tell me where it is, and I'll walk out of here and leave both of you alive. After I meet with my investors, I might even call someone and tell them where you are."

"That's not much of an offer," McCormick told him. "We can't even be sure we'll survive."

"Oh, well," Cody said dismissively. "It is the best you're going to get." And then he reached into his jacket and calmly retrieved a handgun.

As the weapon pointed his direction, McCormick automatically categorized it as a nine millimeter Smith & Wesson, and he wasn't surprised to see the dull stainless steel—no common aluminum would be good enough for this guy. But all the details fled from his mind as a slow, eerie smile spread across Cody's face and he turned the weapon toward the bound judge.

"What you can be sure of, Mr. McCormick," Cody began in a surprisingly pleasant tone, "is that if you don't cooperate, there will be no question of survival. For either of you. You may be prepared to die out of some misguided loyalty to your friend, Johnson, but are you prepared to let someone else go first?"

McCormick swallowed hard and tried to look to Hardcastle for direction, but Cody was directly between them, blocking his view. Before he could make any decision at all, a shot rang out, echoing in the small, empty space.

"No!" McCormick cried.

Cody stepped aside, revealing Hardcastle still upright—still alive—but with blood running from a fresh wound in his shoulder. "This clip holds fourteen rounds," he said, looking over his shoulder at McCormick. "Shall I see how many places I can find to put them before he dies?" He drew a pattern in the air, tracing along Hardcastle's form, before bringing the gun to rest pointed at the judge's thigh. There was another echo through the room and blood began to seep through Hardcastle's pants.

"God! The Sahara!" McCormick screamed. His words came in a rush, before there was time for another shot. "It's at the Sahara. In the garage, on the top floor, far end from the elevator. It's covered, but it's there. I swear, it's there!"

Cody's smile was still in place as he slipped the gun back into his pocket and smoothed the lines of his jacket. He turned back toward the ex-con. "There. You see? That wasn't so hard. Now I'm going to go retrieve my property. If it isn't waiting for me, I will be back, and we'll begin again."

"It's there," McCormick assured him. "But you can't just leave us here. He needs a doctor."

"He'll live," Cody replied. "For now."

McCormick glanced at the judge. His features were drawn, and his skin pale, but he was conscious and alert. "You'll call someone?" he asked, his attention back on Cody.

"I'll think about it," Cody said smugly, offering a self-satisfied smile.

McCormick felt the anger at the haughty dismissal, and he knew with sudden certainty that he couldn't let Cody get his hands on that car, not if they wanted to stay alive. He shot a quick look to Hardcastle, and was relieved to see that the judge seemed to share the opinion. It was going to be now or never. He forced himself not to reply to Cody at all.

McCormick knew he was only going to get one chance at this, and he felt himself holding his breath. Finally, seeming to understand that his prisoner wouldn't be baited any further, Cody turned and McCormick lunged. It wasn't a direct hit, but Cody was unprepared and he stumbled. McCormick grabbed on to the silk shirt and allowed their combined momentum to carry them both to the floor.

Cody struggled viciously, but he made the mistake of focusing more attention on trying to reach the gun inside his jacket than on trying to actually get free, which gave McCormick enough time to get himself completely on top of the other man. Straddling Cody's chest he pulled the man's head forward, then slammed his right fist into Cody's face. He let the head fall with a satisfying thud and then took the time to grab the gun the mobster was still trying to reach.

Leaning all of his weight onto a hand circled around Cody's throat, McCormick shoved the gun to the older man's temple. He stared coldly into the brown eyes. "How's it feel, Cody, knowing you're going to die?"

McCormick stared for a moment longer, then finally released him. He tossed the gun aside and was moving to crawl off the nearly unconscious form when Cody snickered.

"You got something to say, you son of a bitch?" McCormick screamed, grabbing Cody by the collar again and lifting his head from the floor. He didn't notice the worried expression that had come over Hardcastle's face.

"Just thinking that you don't seem to have much more guts than your buddy, Johnson, is all."

Without any conscious intention, McCormick's fist drew back and slammed again into Cody's face. Again. And again. In his fury and grief, the young man wasn't aware that Cody had already fallen into unconsciousness.

He also wasn't aware of the frantic words that he repeated with every blow. "You killed him! You killed my best friend!"

"McCormick!" Hardcastle wasn't getting through. "McCormick, stop it! McCormick!" Finally giving up on the shouting, the judge pitched his voice low and even. "Mark. This isn't what Flip would want."

McCormick froze mid-swing. He saw the bloody face in front of him; felt the tears burning his eyes. He didn't move as he answered, his voice laced with despair. "He was my _best friend_, Judge. The only one who believed in me."

"No," Hardcastle answered quietly. "Not the only one."

Finally, McCormick relaxed his raised fist. He released his grip on the collar and let Cody's head fall back to the floor. He pulled himself off the still form, taking care to move the discarded gun with him. No sense taking chances.

Not feeling up to standing just yet, Mark decided just to stay on his knees. He scrubbed the back of his hand roughly across his eyes, then twisted around to face the judge. "I didn't mean to hurt him, Judge," he said quietly. "I mean, I wanted to kill him, but I didn't really mean to hurt him."

"I know you didn't, kiddo."

Hardcastle sat quietly, examining McCormick, who was sitting in stunned silence, staring at the gun in his hands. Finally he asked, "So what's it gonna be, McCormick? The next move is up to you."

McCormick sniffed slightly. "Up to me? It's never up to me. Things happen and I just do the best I can to come out of it the best I can. Nothin's really up to me."

"Well, it is now," the judge declared. "So what's the next move?"

At last McCormick looked up. And there, sitting tied to a chair, one eye swollen almost shut, a bloody nose, and two fresh bullet wounds, he saw a fork in the road. So many choices lately. He really had never intended to leave the judge here alone, but now, with the imminent danger passed, he fully understood that a quick dash out the door and a simple anonymous phone call would put Cody behind bars, ensure Hardcastle's safety, and keep San Quentin a memory. And it was up to him.

Prison or freedom?

Well . . . prison or a life on the run? A few years behind bars, or forever looking over his shoulder?

Prison, or prove that he probably belonged there after all?

Prison, or destroy the smallest glimmer of hope he could see in the one open eye in front of him?

_Left or right, McCormick? _

He took a breath. "You need a doctor." He paused. "And I guess we better call the cops."

Unbelievably, Hardcastle grinned. "Now you're cookin', kiddo!"

Laughing, McCormick jumped to his feet and began untying Hardcastle's hands.

00000

Things had gotten hectic after that. There were uniformed officers, and detectives, paramedics, and crime scene technicians, along with people McCormick couldn't begin to identify. At one point, in the midst of the bustle, someone had managed to get an ID on him and there had been a sudden shift in the mood as he went from victim to perpetrator. But Hardcastle had stepped in with a few more carefully selected words, and the actual arrest had been avoided, at least temporarily, though once the medics were through with him, he had been placed into the back of a squad car and instructed firmly to stay put.

A detective had taken his statement and hadn't been at all subtle in his disdain or his disbelief, but McCormick didn't concern himself with that. The LVPD was going to be the least of his worries very soon.

He heard someone say that the Coyote had been retrieved safely, and he didn't know what to feel about that. He hoped Hardcastle would remember his promise about Barbara.

The judge himself—having insisted he wasn't going to the hospital for 'flesh wounds' and a good bandage would have to do—had stopped by the car once to tell him that Vetromile had been picked up at the airport, trying to make a quick getaway. Apparently the racer had barely escaped Morgan's surprise visit, and hadn't been too pleased to become the target of his supposed friends. He was talking a mile a minute to anyone who would listen.

He watched the activity of cars coming and going and people scurrying in and out of the warehouse, and he finally decided that things were probably going to work out as he'd wanted. The officials seemed to have everything under control. For once. All he had to do now was await his own unavoidable fate. He scrubbed a hand across his weary face, then leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

00000

McCormick didn't move when he heard the door open on the other side of the car.

"You're still here," Hardcastle commented as he crawled stiffly into the backseat, though he didn't really sound particularly surprised.

An eyebrow raised quizzically, but the younger man still didn't open his eyes. "Where would I be? Besides, they impounded my transportation, ya know."

"Seems to me you're sittin' in perfectly good transportation right here."

McCormick did open his eyes then, and glanced sideways at the judge. "I keep telling you, Hardcase; I don't steal cars."

"Except mine," the judge growled, his tone almost challenging the younger man to continue protesting his innocence.

But McCormick didn't rise to the bait. "Except yours," he agreed sullenly. He brightened. "Although, you gotta give me credit for originality. How many felons you figure ever stole their judge's car while they had a GTA hanging over their head?" He watched the jurist's features form a slight grin, and figured this was as good a time as any for an honest conversation. He raised his head, rearranged his body to fold one leg underneath himself, turned sideways into the car, and faced Hardcastle.

The grin grew bigger on the cragged face. "Comfortable?"

McCormick returned the grin briefly, then became serious. "Look. Besides the fact that I don't make a habit of taking other people's cars, I told you I was gonna turn myself back into you after this was all over." He shrugged. "You bein' here just saved me a trip is all. I figure you can just ship me right back to Quentin from here. Hell, Cody and I can probably even share a bus."

"Don't be ridiculous, kid." A pause. "Cody hasn't even been tried yet."

In spite of his tension, McCormick managed to chuckle. "Okay, but you get my point, Judge. The only place I needed to go was Gulls' Way and that ended yesterday about the time you stuck a gun in my back."

"So you got Cody," Hardcastle replied, not responding to McCormick's comment. "Was it worth it?"

"If you mean, was it worth the next three to ten years of my life behind bars," McCormick answered evenly, "absolutely." He paused a moment. "But if you mean was it worth turning you against me in the process . . . I'm not so sure." He hesitated briefly again, then continued.

"I'd do it differently if I had to do it again; I wish it _could_ be different. Hell, Judge, I wish a lot of things. I wish I'd known that I could trust you. I wish I hadn't made it impossible for you to trust me." He managed the slightest of grins. "It just never occurred to me you might actually manage to pull off the Lone Ranger act. I've changed my mind about that now, though; I think you'll do okay."

"Except I still have to find a Tonto," Hardcastle complained.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is with ex-cons, Hardcase. We're a dime a dozen."

"And do you suppose any of you can be trusted?" the jurist snapped.

McCormick flushed. "Some of us." He gazed sincerely into Hardcastle's eyes. "But some can't, Judge. I mean, _really_ can't. So you be careful."

Hardcastle kept the young man talking. "And if you're so concerned, just what kind of person do you think I should look for?"

"Oh, I dunno," McCormick answered with a shrug. "Someone who won't fall apart if a gun gets waved in their face . . . even when you're the one doing the waving. Someone who won't haul off and smack you when you start giving orders like a slave driver. Maybe someone who doesn't go to sleep too early, since you're probably gonna make them crazy with your basketball in the middle of the night. Someone who can tolerate your infuriating idea that you're always right about everything." He grinned. "You know, typical donkey handler."

"And someone I can trust," Hardcastle added.

The grin faded from the young face, but the judge continued speaking before McCormick could reply.

"Someone I can trust to watch my back when things don't go exactly as planned. Someone I know will recognize and accept responsibility for their own actions instead of making excuses. Someone I can trust to understand that I usually _am_ right about everything, and do as I say when the chips are down. Someone like that could be very useful to me. Know anyone who fits the bill?"

McCormick looked across at him uncertainly. "Judge?"

"I put a lot of effort into choosing you, McCormick," Hardcastle said gruffly, "and I don't know that I'm quite ready to throw it all away. Now don't get me wrong," he continued quickly, "I'm not saying you're off the hook for that little disappearing act you pulled. But it's about five hours between here and LA, and I figure if you're willin' to drive me home—and if you keep being honest with me—that might be just about enough time for you to convince me that taking you out of that cell wasn't the biggest mistake I've ever made." He locked a steel gaze on the younger pair of eyes before him. "Think you're up to it?"

McCormick stared back, stunned. He sat silently for a long moment, searching for the right response. He finally opted for a simple reply. "Yeah, Judge. I think I am."

00000

A little over an hour later, Hardcastle had completed his business with the law enforcement officials and had secured the release of the Coyote. The men were crossing the parking lot slowly, mindful of the injuries they'd sustained.

"I think our first stop ought to be the ER," McCormick was saying, not for the first time. "No offense to the paramedics—or your own medical expertise—but I watched a guy pump two rounds into you, Judge. You probably need more than a Band-Aid."

"It's gonna be a long five hours," Hardcastle muttered. More loudly he said, "I hope you're not gonna argue with me about _everything_. I already told you the guy wasn't trying to kill me, he was trying to scare _you_. He didn't hit anything important, and I'm fine."

"All right, whatever you say. And besides, I don't argue about everything, just the important stuff."

As they approached opposite sides of the car, the judge paused just before getting into the passenger side.

"You know this is your last chance, McCormick." There was no threat in the tone; Hardcastle was just stating facts.

The young man nodded. "And besides, I figure you've still got Millie close by." He grinned slightly, but sobered quickly. "I've learned my lesson, Judge; I swear. I know it's gonna be a long time until you believe that, but I won't be going anywhere else. You're stuck with me." He grinned again, more confidently this time. "Indefinitely, if I remember correctly."

Hardcastle grinned in return. "Let's just get through the next five hours, hotshot," he said as he climbed awkwardly into the car, "then we'll see what happens next."

McCormick chuckled as he slid behind the wheel. "Fair enough," he answered, starting the car. He glanced over at his passenger. "But before we get wrapped up in the next five hours—and whatever comes next—and before you start makin' me crazy again with your donkey routine, I just want to say that you won't regret this."

"You seem pretty sure about that," Hardcastle observed.

"Yep."

"Not worried about the next fork in the road?"

"Nope."

"Really?" The judge hadn't been expecting such confidence. "Why not?"

Eyes twinkling, McCormick slapped the car into gear. He leaned closer to the judge and whispered confidentially, "I'm following you."

Hardcastle's laughter rang through the air as they tore from the parking lot, ready to tackle the next five hours.

And whatever happened next.


End file.
